


Until I Remember It's You

by BlessedAreTheFandoms



Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Anal Sex, Dukat did everything wrong, Established Relationship, Hand Jobs, Hopeful Ending, Idiots in Love, Jadzia Dax is a good bro, Lack of Communication, M/M, Miles O'Brien is a good bro, Nightmares, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Rape, Rape Aftermath, Rape Recovery, Revenge, Season/Series 02, Self-Esteem Issues, Self-Worth Issues, emotionally healing sex, with spoilers for later seasons
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-13
Updated: 2020-05-25
Packaged: 2021-02-27 11:14:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 21
Words: 56,349
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22246162
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlessedAreTheFandoms/pseuds/BlessedAreTheFandoms
Summary: Dukat and Garak hate each other.  Dukat takes what Garak holds most dear--Julian Bashir.But how does one heal from being broken in a feud that wasn't even about you?
Relationships: Julian Bashir/Dukat, Julian Bashir/Elim Garak
Comments: 212
Kudos: 275





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is set after "The Wire" in season two and does some weird things with time, so bear with me. I've tried to keep references as contained within seasons one and two as possible; I posit that Julian and Garak had already been drifting into a relationship when "The Wire" happened and that just pushed them over the edge, as it were.
> 
> If you're into recovery fics but not the sex bit, rest assured that the rape scene is entirely contained within chapter two. There are references throughout, but for triggering caveats know that the scene is that chapter and you can skip it and keep going if references rather than fully explicit descriptions are fine with you.

“And you have no shortage of arrogance for _that_!”

The clipped shout of Commander Benjamin Sisko pierced even the Cardassian steel of his office doors and the Ops crew shifted nervously at their stations. Very few people could rankle the captain to that extent, and it was never good when they managed it.

A moment later, the doors slid open and Dukat—gul until so recently—appeared, calling a perfunctory farewell over his shoulder as he turned away from the office’s remaining occupant. “Hello, Major,” he said as he passed Kira Nerys at the central station, his voice syrupy sweet. “I hope our conversation didn’t distress you too much.”

Kira scoffed. “I think you’re holding all the distress after that reaction,” she bit out.

“Why, the commander misunderstood my intentions and overreacted,” Dukat replied smoothly. “As ever, my first concern is the well-being of Cardassia, which can sometimes…clash with Federation ideals. Surely _you_ understand that, Major.”

Miles O’Brien snorted at the console on the upper level behind Dukat.

“Your first concern is you yourself, and it always will be,” replied Kira. “Now do you have something else to anger the commander with or will you get out of Ops now?”

Dukat simply inclined his head to her and, still smiling, left.

***

On the Promenade, Julian Bashir and plain, simple Garak were in one of their usual arguments over lunch at the replimat.

“You can’t possibly be serious, Garak!” Bashir was exclaiming, body thrown back in disbelief. “There’s simply no way Kelat would consider her disgrace to be _acceptable_ , under those circumstances!”

“But I _am_ perfectly serious, Doctor,” said Garak, his face schooled into an expression of deep concern. “The only way her disgrace _could_ be seen is as acceptable, considering her prior conduct. To do anything else would be to deny the consequence of her own action, which nothing in her character even hints at her being the type to do.”

Bashir leaned forward into the conversation and the briefest hint of a smile crossed Garak’s lips. “So, another life claimed for the glory of the State, then?” Bashir asked, half-mockingly.

“Another life _offered_ , my dear doctor.”

Dukat watched with narrowed eyes as their hands rested together for the briefest of moments on the tabletop, fingers entwining almost accidentally before unwinding and settling apart. As they began a new argument, Dukat crossed into Quark’s and sat down well away from the permanent fixture of the Lurian at the bar’s corner.

“What will it be?” asked Quark as Dukat settled in. “Kanar?”

“Your best,” said Dukat.

Quark poured a glass and handed it to Dukat before leaving to check on another customer. Dukat took a sip and decided this was likely Quark’s second-best; beyond the chance to sell something cheaper at greater expense, he had known Quark long enough to bet that a fine vintage indeed was hidden away in the storerooms, waiting for something big. Perhaps the rightful return of Cardassians to Terok Nor? Dukat smiled at the thought of returning to his office—and kicking Sisko out.

“Finally get a kind word from the major?” Quark asked as he returned to Quark’s section of the bar. “Not much else could make you smile like that.”

Dukat’s smiled stretched just enough to become unnerving. “It’s this kanar, really. Such a _fine_ selection.”

Quark eyed him suspiciously, hearing a lie but not wanting to admit to his own. “Happy to please.” 

Behind Quark, the doctor’s lanky gait as he crossed the Promenade back to the infirmary caught Dukat’s eye. “How happy?”

“How what?” asked Quark, confused.

“ _How_ happy are you to please, Quark?”

Quark turned to follow Dukat’s gaze out at the Promenade before shrugging and leaning on the bar. “Happier when there’s latinum in the pleasing, Dukat.”

The lack of his title, his _rightful_ title, from nothing more than a Ferengi bartender rankled Dukat and pulled his attention back to the creature in front of him. He held his temper, barely. “Is that so.”

“It is. What would it take to please? A holosuite? I still have the old programs—well, most of them—and some of the newer ones the Bajorans have brought with them would, ah, suit you quite well.”

Dukat’s eyes narrowed and he leaned in menacingly. Quark leaned back, hands up placatingly. “Or perhaps something from some of the traders coming through?” he redirected. “I can tell you who is scheduled to be here in the next few days.”

“I seek…better understanding, Quark. For instance, as I came in, I happened to notice that Dr. Bashir has formed some kind of attachment to the— _tailor_ Garak.”

“Bashir and Garak?” said Quark, brow raised in surprise. “Sure; they’ve been having lunch together for years.”

“Unusual for a human to be that…close to a Cardassian, especially when Starfleet is trying so hard to be friendly with the Bajoran hosts.”

“I don’t know about ‘close,’” snorted Quark. “It’s just lunch, and from what I hear—” He stopped abruptly.

“What you hear…?” prompted Dukat into the pause.

“What’s it worth to you?” said Quark, curiosity and avarice gleaming in his eyes.

“Ah, it’s nothing,” Dukat sighed theatrically. “Especially since their friendship seems to be common knowledge.” He knocked back the rest of his kanar and stood. “I’m simply trying to familiarize myself with Terok—with Deep Space Nine as it is now.”

“No second round?” said Quark hastily. “I’m sure I could help you get familiarized.”

“I have further business with the commander,” Dukat lied smoothly. “But I do appreciate your _second-best_ kanar.” He stared pointedly at Quark until Quark sighed, changed the price on the padd he had pulled from under the bar, and handed it to Dukat. With a small smile, Dukat thumbed the bill and left.

Not yet wanting to return to his ship, Dukat found himself crossing to the replimat. If he sat at _just_ the right angle—there. He settled in at a corner table; the view wasn’t perfect, but he could watch the entrance to Garak’s Clothiers with very little obstruction. He stewed for some time, remembering that ever-so-brief touch of Cardassian grey on human bronze.

“Not hungry, Dukat?”

Dukat stifled his urge to jump and turned slowly instead. Odo, that blasted security chief, stood glowering over him. Again, the lack of address from someone who had once known his place galled Dukat.

“Why do you ask?” he said blithely.

“Usually, when people come to the replimat, it’s to get something replicated,” said Odo. “You, however, just seem to be watching the Promenade. Perhaps you feel the assayer’s office is a little too unguarded and needs the extra eye?”

“Ah, Odo, you have far too much suspicion!” Dukat said jovially. “I am simply resting before returning to my ship; it is good to have a change of scenery, no? What better use for a space station than to introduce some variety to see?”

“I can think of several far better uses, Dukat, and none of them involve loitering. If you’re not going to use the replimat as it was intended, I suggest you return to your ship, scenic or no.”

“Odo, such lack of hospitality.” Dukat placed a hand on his chest and drew his face into an exaggerated look of shock. “However would the Federation feel if it knew that its attempt to be the welcoming presence of the system was being so systematically undermined by a simple security officer?”

Odo scoffed. “I think the Federation has other things to worry about, considering the wormhole they may now be starting to regret.” He looked more closely at Dukat and then looked out again, tracing the sight line. “Ah, but there are other things to watch than the assayer’s office here, aren’t there? Perhaps you should try out a more Cardassian welcome at Garak’s shop.”

Damn the changeling, and damn the smirk on his face. Odo couldn’t be bothered to learn how to mimic ears properly, but of course he would be able to sneer like any humanoid when he chose to. “I fear that also might not be up to Federation standards,” replied Dukat, holding his voice steady and light. “It seems that the whole station is falling away from the hopes of Starfleet.” He _tsk_ ed lightly. “I can’t imagine Commander Sisko is at all pleased with such…disarray.”

“And I’m sure you would know what pleases the commander,” said Odo drily. “Quite likely, that list would be headed by you leaving the station as quickly as possible.”

_The impudence!_ Dukat seethed inside, the shouts of Sisko from earlier that day still chasing through his mind. “It may indeed be simpler for him when he only has one Cardassian to mistrust—though it would seem that your doctor has decided that not all Cardassians are untrustworthy.” 

“Bashir? He’s young, and foolish, even for a human.” Dukat smiled inwardly at Odo’s confirmation, however sideways. Odo continued, “But even he knows better than to trust Garak completely, for all the friendship they claim.”

“Well, that is certainly wise,” said Dukat, “especially if he is as foolish as you say.”

“Hmmph,” said Odo. “They’re still friends, so I can’t say how ‘wise’ the doctor truly is.”

“Well, we are all foolish in our youth,” said Dukat expansively.

“I wasn’t,” answered Odo, his tone irksomely prim.

“You were never quite a ‘youth,’ either, were you?” Dukat let the slightest bite edge his voice; Odo’s sanctimony never failed to get under his scales.

“Quite,” answered Odo, his voice notably harder. “So, will you be ordering something so you can sit and glower at your enemy’s store or will you return to your ship so I can go back to my job?”

“By all means,” said Dukat with exaggerated horror, “don’t let me keep you from your work! The station needs its security chief.”

Odo rolled his eyes.

“I think I shall try some of that ‘raktajino’ that everyone seems to like so much.” Dukat smiled an innocent smile at Odo.

“Fine,” Odo said. “But I will be watching.” He stepped out of the replimat and waited. Dukat got up, crossed to the replicator, ordered his drink, and returned to the table, raising the mug in salute to Odo. Odo scoffed in disgust and returned to the security office, leaving Dukat in much better spirits for having won at least that confrontation today.

***

The raktajino had grown cold, untouched, at Dukat’s elbow when he noticed that there were far more security officers among the passersby than there ought to be. So Odo was having his people none-too-subtly monitor him; fine. The hour had done nothing other than dampen his mood, anyway. The doctor had stayed in his infirmary—although Dukat hadn’t really expected anything else. The delight on Garak’s face replayed in Dukat’s mind, and he hated him for it. He hated that Garak, who should have been nothing but miserable trapped here on a Bajoran station, had anything at all to make him happy. Dukat wanted to crush the happiness out of him, wring it from him one hope at a time.

Dukat left the replimat and returned to his ship.

There was no reason to stay at the station; his business with Sisko was complete, and his crew was uneasy around the station that looked Cardassian but felt foreign and cold. But Dukat couldn’t leave, yet, and so they remained. Dukat tried to lose himself in his work, reading reports and answering messages, diverting his crew’s unvoiced (but noted) curiosity at their still being in dock. But in every lull, Garak’s small smile returned, the brush of hand on hand. Soon, all the pains of the days converged on the image. In the smile he saw Sisko’s dismissal of him, Quark’s disrespect, Odo’s smirking suspicion, Kira’s scorn.

After several hours, Dukat replicated a glass of kanar and drank it quickly. Replicated kanar was a drink of desperation, viscous and flat, but the spike of alcohol burned just right—his ship would have none of that Federation synthehol. Dukat made another glass and cursed the Federation and its fire-less alcohol, cursed the Bajorans who had taken his station and filled it with Klingon coffee and Ferengi opportunists, cursed the shapeshifter whom nothing could impress. He cursed Garak.

He drank more, and he began to curse the doctor.

Garak, the traitor, the failed spy, the murderer—he had no right to happiness, or to friendship. He had no right to a physical connection, to a relationship; such an exile had no right to having someone to warm his bed with that outrageous heat humans exuded.

_Oh._

Not drunk, though certainly not sober, Dukat felt a plan forming. Garak did not deserve what he had—so it was only right that Dukat take it from him. He could show Garak what exile was supposed to be: isolation and loneliness. Yes, he could do that; he could show that foolish human why it was unwise to get involved with Cardassians.

Dukat focused, sobering himself, switching drinks to replace the syrupy taste of the sub-optimal kanar. He would need—a rope, yes, a rope would do. He replicated one, feeling its heft and scratch. A smile spread over his face, feral and fierce.

“You will remember the power of gul Dukat,” he announced to his room before grabbing the rope and leaving for the station.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to Memory Alpha for a map of the Promenade layout.
> 
> I will upload a new chapter every week; I have most of this written and the rest blocked out in notes, so rest assured this will not be a left-to-languish fic. Those make me sad. Comments quite welcome as we go along!


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y'all, this is the rape scene. (There's also a brawl, but I'm less concerned that you be aware of that.) It's really nothing but that, so if you're looking for plot rather than violence, skip this one. Dead dove, and all that.

The late-night station was considerably less occupied than during the business hours and Dukat kept his mind sharp looking for Odo or any of his lackeys prowling about. His crewmen had barely blinked when he disembarked with a suggestive waggle of his eyeridges; they had learned not to question how Dukat spent his off-hours. The rope was tucked safely away under his armor, hidden from curious eyes. 

With purposeful strides, Dukat made his way to the turbolift. “Computer,” he said, being careful not to slur, "locate Dr. Julian Bashir.” 

“Dr. Julian Bashir is on habitat level five,” said the even voice, adding the room number with clipped precision. 

“My thanks,” Dukat responded, delighted at the lack of secrecy in this Federation idiocy. “Habitat level five.” 

The lift activated, dropping steadily. At its stop, Dukat stepped out, navigating his way to the room with little difficulty. Funny, he thought, how the station was still in his bones—he could probably walk this place blindfolded. 

Provided he were alone. There was no one he would trust to be around if he could not see, no one in the universe. 

Garak’s smile of secret invitation, of hidden companionship, flashed through his mind again and he patted the rope tucked against his chest. 

Arriving at Bashir’s door, Dukat hesitated. He was mostly sober now and he knew crossing this threshold was irreversible. It was not too late to return to his ship, to leave this mistake behind. 

Somewhere further down the corridor came a raucous laugh, followed quickly by another voice shushing its likely drunken companion. The outburst pushed Dukat’s hatred of this Bajoran-Federation farce through him like a surging tidal wave. It should be his station. 

It should be his smile. 

He pressed the comm. 

A beat. Two. “Hello?” 

“Dr. Bashir!” Dukat said in a hearty tone. “I do hope I didn’t wake you.” 

“Not quite, no. Who is this?” 

“My _deep_ apologies. This is g—this is Dukat.” Swallowing the title burned more fiercely than the kanar. 

“Dukat?” Bashir’s surprise was clear. “Are you alright?” 

“I—well, Doctor, would you please let me in to answer that?” 

“Oh; oh, of course.” The door slid open and Dukat stepped smoothly inside. The doctor had obviously been curled up somewhere; his hair was slightly rumpled and his clothes—not the uniform, but off-duty loungewear in somewhat violent colors—were hanging oddly on his lanky frame. A sliver of collarbone peeked over the loose collar of his shirt and Dukat found his eyes tracing the lack of ridges. 

“Are you alright?” Bashir asked again. 

Dukat refocused, jerking his eyes up. “I don’t believe so, Doctor, no.” 

“I’m sorry to hear that, but I’m off duty. I’m sure the infirmary would be a far better place for you to—” 

“You see, I have had a day of slights, and insults, and right in the midst of it I saw _you_ cavorting with a traitor!” 

Bashir went rigid. “Dukat, have you been drinking?” 

“I thought the Federation had higher standards, Doctor.” 

“I’ll take that as a yes. I can call up to the infirmary to expect you, but I’d like you to leave now.” 

“I asked around,” Dukat continued, ignoring the request, “and it would seem that you and that disgrace spend quite a lot of time together.” 

“That ‘disgrace’ is my friend,” said Bashir, his voice cold. “And it’s none of your business how I spend my time.” 

“Oh, but it is,” said Dukat, suddenly low and threatening, “when you are supporting a murderous coward.” 

“I’m calling security,” said Bashir, crossing toward the comm panel on the wall. “Get out, Dukat, or—” 

Dukat moved, fast as a snake. He grabbed Bashir by his shoulders and pinned him to the wall well away from the comm panel. “It is _gul_ Dukat,” he hissed. 

With surprising strength, Bashir shoved Dukat back and dashed toward the panel, but Dukat caught his balance and gripped Bashir’s arm, flinging him back into the room. Bashir tripped into the sofa, pushing it askew and bumping several padds to the floor. Dukat advanced but Bashir was already back on his feet. He swung at Dukat and the blow landed, cracking against Dukat’s jaw. Dukat’s head snapped sideways and he fell into the wall, knocking more padds and a stuffed bear off the attached shelf. With a low growl, he pushed away from the wall and tackled Bashir just before he reached the panel. They both went down, Bashir catching hold of a chair and bringing it across Dukat’s back as they rolled together. Dukat’s armor absorbed the weight and the two wrestled in a brawling fistfight. Bashir was shockingly well-matched to Dukat’s Cardassian strength, which only fueled Dukat’s anger. Bashir managed to land several more hits, drawing dark blood, before Dukat barreled them toward the table and flung Bashir upwards, cracking his head against the unyielding edge. Bashir immediately went limp, flopping across Dukat’s body.

Dukat took a moment to catch his breath, checking to make sure the human was still breathing himself. Pushing the slighter man off him, Dukat stood and tested some of the rising bruises. Not bad; not bad at all, for a human. He would have to make sure and tie the rope tightly. 

Unceremoniously, Dukat grabbed Bashir’s shirt collar and dragged him to the bedroom. The awkward form was fairly light, even as entirely dead weight. Dukat hoisted him onto the bed and took a moment simply to look in the low starlight. Yes, this was fitting indeed. It would be his, here on his station, under the eyes of the merciless stars. 

Leaving the room’s lights off, Dukat removed the top layers of his armor and set to work divesting Bashir of his clothing. Though it would have been better to strip the doctor while conscious, Dukat’s aching jaw compelled him to dispense with that form of claiming in favor of keeping him controlled. Once all the clothes were off, however, Dukat spared another moment. He had had his fair share of alien liaisons, but the lithe, tawny body of Bashir, slack and unprotected, was _delicious_. Dukat felt warmth creep down his _ajan_ at the sight—and the thought of what was yet to come. He trailed his hands all over Bashir’s body simply because he could before rolling the doctor over and tightly binding his arms behind him. Returning him to his back, Dukat fought the urge to simply take him now; while it was tempting, an unconscious messenger was no help at all. 

It was forever and no time at all before Bashir’s head lolled to one side and a distressed groan announced that he was waking. Dukat came and sat on the narrow bed next to him, touching nothing, waiting. First was the registry of pain…next was the hindrance of movement…soon would come… 

The instant Bashir’s eyes snapped open and he opened his mouth to yell, Dukat closed a hand over his throat, holding the head still as the body fought. “Welcome back, Dr. Bashir,” he said calmly, feeling the excitement building in his stomach at the anger in Bashir’s eyes that had not yet switched into fear. 

“I’m afraid I had to rather quickly subdue you,” Dukat continued, “which means your head will likely ache for some time. But don’t worry.” He leaned down next to Bashir’s ear and breathed, “It will not be the only thing that hurts.” 

He sat up and there, _there_ was the first shade of panic pooling in those hazel eyes. His grin was predatory, fierce; he could feel it biting its way across his own face and oh, how Bashir struggled, bucking his body against the bed, twisting this way and that, not even caring that Dukat’s hand was still around his neck, cutting his airflow, able to snap it with the slightest twitch. Dukat felt he could almost evert on this alone, but he needed to get out of his clothing. 

“Doctor,” he said sternly, squeezing just enough to make it truly difficult for Bashir to breathe. “I am going to let go for a moment, and you are not going to scream or make any noise whatsoever. If you do, not only will this evening be that much more painful, but I will see to it that whoever hears and attempts to come to your rescue dies rather slowly for their trouble. Do we understand each other?” He squeezed still harder and Bashir began to audibly choke. Hatred burned in Bashir’s eyes as he nodded curtly. 

“Good.” Dukat released his throat and stepped out of Bashir’s line of sight, savoring the quick inhale, the gulp of the necessary air. He shed his clothes quickly, not giving Bashir time to turn to see him, before returning to the bed. Seeing him naked, Bashir opened his mouth again and Dukat clamped his hand over it. “ _Doctor_ ,” he said in a tone of annoyance, “you said you _understood_.” 

Beyond caring, Bashir continued to yell muffled shouts into Dukat’s hand, thrashing until Dukat began to worry that he might actually fall off the bed. Dukat sighed; this would have to go much faster than he’d hoped. With no ceremony at all, he swung himself over Bashir, straddling him, pinning him down with the full force of his weight. Bashir began yelling in earnest, no longer able to move at all with the heavier man on top of him. 

“Be _quiet_ ,” Dukat snapped, jerking Bashir’s head just enough to show that breaking his neck was a possibility even from this position. Bashir stopped yelling. 

“Much better.” Bashir glared hard at him, but Dukat was far more interested in the contrast of his shining grey _ajan_ against the light copper of Bashir’s smooth stomach. “Oh, I can see what Garak finds so appealing,” he breathed, momentarily releasing Bashir’s mouth as he rubbed his freed hand down the chest to the muscled abdomen. Bashir tried to pull away from him, but Dukat’s weight pressed him into the mattress, the cord binding Bashir’s arms digging into his skin. Bashir writhed, trying to gain some kind of leverage, and Dukat laughed. 

“Oh, yes,” he purred. “Do that again.” He slid down slightly, trapping Bashir’s thighs beneath him, and briefly fondled Bashir’s cock. 

Bashir bucked his hips. “Don’t _touch_ me,” he spat, and Dukat laughed again. 

“Doctor, which part of me should stop touching you? Clearly,” he said, tracing his fingers around Bashir’s rising member, “not all of you is in agreement.” 

Although the medical part of Julian’s mind understood that his response to Dukat’s touch was a purely physiological occurrence, shame burned through the rest of him. “I do not want this,” Julian hissed, pulling again at the cord beneath him, trying to twist away. “I do not want _you. I do not consent_.” 

“Whom are you trying to convince?” Dukat asked. With a grin of too much teeth, he slithered his way in between Julian’s legs, sitting just beneath his pelvis. The friction pushed Dukat over the edge into everting and he sighed with pleasure. The alien moment always made Julian smile when it was Garak; the meeting of Julian’s desire and scientific curiosity was a whole other level of connection between them, but this was not that. Dukat’s _Ch’oCh_ springing forth like a perverse jack-in-the-box disgusted Julian; this was wrong, all wrong, and Julian opened his mouth to yell once more. His shout was swallowed by Dukat’s hand covering his mouth, pressing down. 

“Now now, Doctor,” Dukat said, sickeningly sweet, “we don’t want any company—not yet, anyway.” With one hand wrapped over Julian’s whole jaw, Dukat shifted closer and lifted one of Julian’s legs over his shoulder. He slid himself against Julian, pushing against his entrance, and Julian tensed every muscle he had, scrabbling with his other leg to gain purchase and move away. 

“Oh, come now.” Dukat clicked his tongue in gentle annoyance, his eyes glinting with cruel delight. In a swift move he removed his hand from Julian’s mouth, placed both hands on Julian’s chest, and pushed hard, hard enough to drive all the air momentarily from Julian’s lungs and surely cracking at least one rib, straining the hip flexor that bent too far too quickly. Gasping at the sudden pain, Julian let go of his body to breathe through the shock—and Dukat grabbed Julian’s thighs and slammed his way in, riding his own lubrication and nothing else. Julian’s scream was again engulfed by Dukat’s hand digging into his cheekbones as he fumbled to get Dukat off, to get him _out_. 

Dukat draped himself entirely over Julian, rubbing the base of his _Ch’oCh_ lazily at Julian’s burning entrance. “This is how a _real_ Cardassian feels,” Dukat whispered into his ear, letting the length of himself settle into the incredible heat of Julian. “You should be more careful of who you let into your bed; such a poor example might make you think less of our species.” He licked a stripe up Julian’s face, savoring the iron tang, and then he sat up and thrust, and thrust, and thrust, and Julian forgot anything other than the spike of pain stabbing him from inside and the nails cutting grooves into his face that filled with rising blood and saltwater tears. 

*** 

Dukat pulled out of him with the same suddenness he’d entered, cleaning himself off with Julian’s blanket and leaving without a word and without unbinding Julian. Julian heard his door slide open and close again and he lay still for a moment, sickened and sore. His arms were almost useless from the loss of circulation and his hips and insides were strained and bruised. When he rolled off the bed, his legs gave out beneath him and he fell, crashing against his shoulder on the floor without his hands to catch himself. Gritting his teeth and feeling the pull of the cuts in his face, Julian rose to his knees. He breathed steadily before rising to his feet—it mattered that he did not crawl, even to the bathroom. Stumbling through the doorway, he lined up the cord against the edge of the sink, using the lip to push down, down, slipping in his own blood more than once as the robe burned the skin with it, banging into the basin, falling again, adding to the bruises and cuts painting his body, inflaming the fractured rib and the now-torn hip. Finally, his arms were free and the feeling of sensation reaching his fingertips again was another voice in the chorus of agony that drove him to the toilet where he knelt and threw up until his stomach could empty no more. 

The pins and needles were just starting to fade as Julian limped into the shower, choosing water rather than sonic, and he washed every inch of himself, scrubbing so hard that the blood flowed anew from some of the cuts that had started to close and his skin broke open in fresh wounds. Eventually he stopped, turned off the water, dried himself. He stood in the bathroom decorated with his blood, the cord still lying under the sink, and wrapped himself tightly in his towel before returning to his bedroom, turning off the comm, and lying on the floor, closing himself off to the world and finally losing consciousness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am aware that showers are usually either sonic or water but I'm going with the idea of them being changeable, roll with it. Also, as ever, my thanks to tinsnip and the brilliant Cardassian anatomy--sorry I'm doing terrible things to Julian with it.
> 
> Oof, that chapter was rough in all the ways. On to the very slow and terrible business of healing!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spoilers of the main conflict of "Dr. Bashir, I Presume" in season 5, so heads up that I've moved that way forward in time.

Garak pressed the chime again, trying to quiet the alarm growing in his mind. When Julian hadn’t appeared as promised in the shop that morning to examine the new crimson scarves, Garak hadn’t been too concerned. He’d gone to the infirmary to see if his dear doctor had simply gone there on autopilot, a habit he sometimes had. Julian was not there, either, though he was due to come on shift in half an hour. When the nurse had commed him, there had been no answer. Not yet willing to worry, Garak had volunteered to check on Julian himself, but now after a third unanswered door chime he knew something was very wrong. He overrode the door code, pushing through the litany of possibilities scrolling through his mind.

Garak entered the living room and froze. The first thing was the smell, a strong Cardassian musk that was nearly imperceptible to non-Cardassians but was unmistakable to him as he tasted the air with his _so’c_ and grimaced. The second thing was the sight: items were knocked off shelves, the couch had been shifted a full meter, a chair lay in pieces by the table. Kukulaka lay in a heap on the floor.

Garak’s Order training leapt to the fore as he spared a passing wish for a phaser. He scanned the room quickly; seeing no threat, he silently stalked to the bedroom door. It was half-open, and Garak scanned what he could see. The bed was a mess, the kind of mess that only came from a great deal of movement. The smell was overpowering, a sharp tang of iron laced through the heavy Cardassian overlay—human blood, then. He leaned into the door, listening; he could hear one person breathing. Garak locked down the hope that sparked with the sound of breath and pushed the door the rest of the way open, ducking back and waiting. When nothing happened, he inched his way back into a position of scanning, seeing now streaks of red on the bed, the walls, the far door. Stepping into the room, Garak felt his heart stop as he saw the bundle that was Julian in a towel on the floor. He forced himself to continue his sweep and check the bathroom for any intruder, retreating into his training to shelve his emotions.

In the bathroom was more blood and a twisted cord but no other person. Cataloging the scene, Garak allowed himself to return to Julian and kneel beside him. He checked for a pulse as Julian had taught him, two fingers lightly held on the wrist. The beat under the scratched and bruised skin was erratic and Garak’s hand closed around Julian’s wrist unthinkingly, the sheer amount of detail and pain overwhelming him.

Julian’s eyes flew open and he wrenched his arm out of Garak’s grasp. “Don’t fucking _touch_ me!” he shouted as he shot up and away from Garak, eyes wild. The towel unwound and fell away and Garak almost physically reached for the dispassionate safety of his training as he saw the naked form of his lover. Angry purple bruises bloomed like obscene dahlias over much of Julian’s body and streaks of dried blood drew blackened stripes over his golden skin. The violent disarray of the bed and the heavy scent wrapped over the room drew a name from Garak’s mind and he felt rage boil through him beneath the carefully cultivated detachment.

“Julian,” he said softly, marveling at the control of his voice, slowly opening his hands while he remained kneeling on the floor. “Julian, it’s Garak. It’s Elim.”

Julian stared at him with eyes that didn’t see and Garak had a fleeting memory of reversed roles, of him waking with wild eyes and Julian curled uncomfortably in the chair beside him, voice soft. He let the thought go.

“Julian, I am not going to hurt you,” he said, keeping his tone level and his body still.

Blinking slowly, his breath ragged, Julian came back into himself. The ferocity left his eyes; its departure aged him a decade. “Garak?” he croaked, his voice small and uncertain.

Pushing his detailed revenge for the one who would make Julian sound this fearful to the back of his mind, Garak nodded. “I’m here, Julian.”

Like a puppet with cut strings, Julian simply collapsed to the floor. Garak instinctively reached to catch him.

“No!” shouted Julian, shoving Garak’s hands away. “No, I said no!”

Garak retreated, kneeling a meter away, hands open and unmoving on his thighs. “I hear you. I’m sorry.” He let Julian breathe for a moment. “Julian, what happened?”

A silence stretched between them, but Garak was used to silences. He had learned patience.

“I did not want this,” Julian finally said, and his voice was nothing like Garak had ever heard from him. It was flat, dull, lifeless, entirely missing the vibrancy that had characterized Julian since the tremulous and fascinated uncertainty of their very first meeting. Beneath his rage, Garak felt his heart shatter.

“You fought well, Julian,” Garak said, reading the chaos of the rooms.

“Not well enough,” Julian snarled, raking his hand over his own chest and leaving new, shallow scrapes across the smooth flesh. “He fucked me like it was nothing; even my own augmented strength, that great and terrible secret, couldn’t stop him.”

Although he knew of only one Cardassian who would commit this great atrocity, who would be brazen enough to mark this place with a scent that might as well be an arrow, Garak had to ask. “Who, Julian?”

For the first time, Julian looked straight at him, eyes clear and burning in their intensity. A single, unheeded tear tracked down his bruised and bloodied cheek.

“Dukat.”

Garak forced himself to breathe, to keep breathing, to avoid tasting the foul air over and over again and becoming sick with it. He locked his mind into the spy’s need for information, the tailor’s love of precision, the gardener’s quiet control. Everything else could come later, when he was not looking at the blood and bruises remaking a body he knew almost as well as his own.

“I—I told him no, I told him so many times no,” Julian said into the silence of Garak’s breathing.

Garak heard the layers. “I believe you,” he said firmly. “I believe you were very clear on what you wanted. I believe you didn’t invite any of this. I believe this was Dukat’s violation, Dukat’s violence.” _I believe you would never have forsaken me for him,_ Garak added silently. _I believe he could have chosen no one but you._

Julian shivered and Garak realized that he was still sitting there, naked. “Julian, would you be amenable to getting dressed?”

Julian stared at the floor. “Need my medkit,” he said.

“Do you not want to document the injuries before you heal them?”

Julian scoffed harshly. “I’m the CMO of the station, Garak,” he said bitingly. “Trust me, I’ve already reported sexual assault to myself and catalogued every single instance of damage photographically.” He tapped his head.

Garak let this second snide reference to the enhancements also slide—on the best of days, Julian was ambivalent about them. However, he knew Julian’s Federation ideals of documentation and justice would only be covered like this in deep distress; much as he disliked the Federation concepts of “fair and just,” he knew Julian needed them as much as he himself needed the Cardassian sun. “I have no doubt they are properly memorized,” Garak said, “but when you press charges, you’ll need documentation that others can see.”

“When—?” Julian laughed bitterly. “When I press _charges_? How in the hell do you think I’m going to be able to press charges on someone who doesn’t even answer to his _own_ government half the time? Garak, do you want to know what Dukat said as he spilled himself into me?”

Garak did not, not ever, especially not when he was in the uncomfortable position of attempting to defend Starfleet notions of justice, but he knew the question could not abide a negative. He looked Julian steadily in the eye.

“He hissed, ‘This is how a _real_ Cardassian feels,’” Julian said, “and that I should ‘be careful’ who I ‘let into my bed,’ because this whole thing is part of your war. It has nothing to do with my pressing _charges_ like this was some random attack that can be brought up in court; it has everything to do with how much he hates _you_.”

_Breathe, keep breathing._ Garak’s face remained carefully blank, the face Julian always hated because it was so often accompanied by half-truths and full lies. It made a twisted and utterly Cardassian kind of sense; Julian was the most important and cherished part of Garak’s life on DS9, of course the now-twice-dethroned Dukat would choose to ruin him. The CMO of the hated Federation and the lover of a hated foe—two riding hounds killed with one shot. Garak wanted to apologize, but neither Kardasi nor Standard had words for this magnitude of pain.

“For the record,” Julian said thickly, “I much prefer how you feel, even if that’s ‘fake’ Cardassian.”

Garak chuckled once, a dry and humorless thing bubbling out of his chest. His hands twitched in the desire to reach out, to touch, to heal that which he loved, but he kept them on his thighs. “So you think not reporting this will score something in that war?” he asked instead.

“I think reporting this will just bring a lot of trouble on you and—yeah, and trouble on me.”

Garak heard the two points and chose the latter. “How would it get you in trouble?”

Julian pulled into himself, cracking some of the dried blood trails on his legs and wincing with whatever unknown injury. “Won’t look good, a Starfleet officer engaging with the enemy.”

“Engaging with—Julian, you were _raped_!” Julian flinched and folded himself in closer, impossibly close for those gangly limbs, but Garak continued. “It doesn’t ‘look’ anything, and especially on a Bajoran station people will be ready and able to understand the…cruelty of a Cardassian.”

“What if I don’t want people to understand? What if my staff found out?” Julian said to his knees. “And how on earth could I report this to—to Commander Sisko?”

_Ah,_ sighed Garak internally. Not trouble, then. Shame. “I will go with you; I will be with you at every step of whatever you choose to do—if you’re comfortable having me. You do not—Julian, you do not have to do this alone.”

Julian raised his head, searching Garak’s impassive face, finding the clear blue eyes. “Will you promise not to do any steps _without_ me?” he asked.

The Federation heart rising at last. Garak cursed it even as his own heart celebrated that Julian, his Julian, was still there under the blood, bruises, and trauma. He knew what he was being asked: would he let Julian decide retribution, let Julian decide justice?

“I promise,” he whispered, and felt the rage ease just the smallest bit at the half-smile Julian gave him.

***

Although meeting with Commander Sisko was going to be the hardest journey imaginable, Julian refused to ask for an emergency beam-out. Such a move would alert the entirety of Ops to there being a problem—but walking _across_ Ops to that office, that Cardassian announcement of superiority, that room so long occupied by Dukat, to announce this horror to his superior officer; that was paralyzing.

Garak was all business. “How about getting dressed first?” he said. “Wherever you go, you can’t get there naked.”

Julian frowned. Garak rustled through the closet, letting his tailor’s instincts play even amidst the travesty that was Julian’s wardrobe. A Starfleet uniform would never do—if Julian was ashamed to think of his staff seeing him, the uniform would only be a potent symbol of what he considered his disgrace. The looser clothing was out, including the shirts Garak himself had made; although Julian had made no sign of being uncomfortable standing in front of Garak nude, Garak remembered others pulling sleeves down as though they would never be long enough, wrapping themselves in layer upon layer despite the heat of the Cardassian station. Women, mostly, but not entirely, their Bajoran ridges about the only skin left showing between eyes lowered so far they were almost closed, mutely walking on the edges of the Promenade.

Garak pushed the memory away.

“Here,” he murmured, satisfied. He pulled a dark pair of trousers and a thin crewneck sweater to him and turned to Julian. “How do you feel about these?”

Julian reached out and felt the sweater sleeve, almost caressing it. He nodded. “I still need my medkit,” he said quietly. “One…one of my ribs is at least cracked; if it breaks, it may puncture something. And a, um, a hip got—got stretched too far, I can’t...I don’t think I can keep walking on it much longer.”

Garak wordlessly retrieved the small kit Julian had customized to himself. He watched, hands full of clothing, as Julian found the right tool and ran it down his side, chose a different tool and moved it across a hip crease, slowly, microspasms of pain streaking across his face. “Better,” Julian announced after a moment, and Garak handed the clothes to him. As Julian went to find boxers, Garak stooped to pick up the towel. The reek of the bed as his face came level with it slammed through him, thick and cloying as cheap kanar. He hissed, an involuntary sound deep in his chest that almost hurt in its intensity.

“Garak?” Julian asked from behind him. “Are you all right?”

Garak straightened hurriedly and stepped back, his hands strangling the towel as he struggled to calm himself. This was not the time for anger, not yet.

“Fine, my dear,” he said, lightly. “I’m afraid my back isn’t what it was when I was younger. I must be more careful in sudden movements or I might pull something.”

It was a clumsy lie, the more so when presented to his lover who was also a doctor who knew to an alarming degree of exactitude just how much Garak’s back could take. But Julian was not looking at lies today; he nodded and pulled the sweater over his head, gingerly. Garak watched the wince, heard the catch of breath, wondered how many other internal injuries there might be and what Julian had decided was worth ignoring for the time being.

Having accomplished dressing, Julian stood still, lost. Garak didn’t know which hurt more to see: the lack of animation in the usually energetic doctor or the bruises beginning to deepen in shade across his face in a perfect handprint.

It was an equal match, he decided. And there was no way Julian was going to be able to handle Sisko’s office.

“Julian?” Garak asked, willing the deadened eyes to truly see him. “What if Sisko comes here?”

“I won’t comm him,” Julian said immediately, flatly. “I can’t ask the commander here.”

“No,” Garak agreed, “but I can go to him and ask him in person to return with me.”

“That will seem—that will rouse suspicions, won’t it?” Julian asked.

Garak smiled, the careful smirk he often used when being obvious about bending the truth. “I have it on good authority that I can make most any story seem plausible,” he teased, “though why a simple tailor should be deemed so duplicitous I’ve no idea.”

Amidst the relief that skittered across Julian’s face, the outline of an answering smile shone briefly. _Good,_ Garak crowed internally. _Present, advance, first strike. Fight with me, Doctor, you must keep fighting._

“I’ll, uh; I’ll just wait here, then,” Julian said.

_Not here!_ Garak nearly thundered. _Not where the smell is sickening, the covers strewn like dead leaves, the memory utterly visible. No, I won’t leave you alone in here._

“How about in the living room?” he suggested instead. Julian remained, too still by half, and Garak carelessly reached out to guide him. His hand brushed against Julian’s shoulder and the reaction was instantaneous—Julian recoiled again, cracking an elbow against the wall behind him in his sudden movement. Garak winced and pulled his hand back, standing still with palms out open, waiting.

After a few breaths, Julian exhaled. “I’m sorry,” he said, holding his elbow in obvious pain. “I’m so sorry, Garak, I—”

“Julian,” Garak interrupted, gently. “It is my doing. I startled you. Is your arm alright?”

Julian nodded. “Hit the funny bone,” he said, ruefully.

Garak’s eyeridges drew together in confusion. “The ‘funny’ bone? What makes a bone entertaining, especially one that pains you?”

Julian gave a dry and small chuckle. “It’s a human expression for the—well, it’s not really a bone at all. It’s the ulnar nerve; we call it ‘funny’ because hitting it momentarily numbs some of the nerves in our hands, which feels very odd, or ‘funny.’”

Garak slowly lowered his hands, bizarrely glad to be this perplexed, thankful beyond measure for Julian to be sliding into his medical delight even for a moment. “Humans are very strange creatures,” he said.

“We are that,” Julian agreed, still rubbing his elbow. He took another breath—shallow, too shallow—and crossed by Garak to the living room. While Garak was very glad to see him leave the space, he did not miss how wide a berth Julian gave him as he passed.

“I’ll be back very soon,” Garak said as he headed toward the door himself once Julian was by the couch.

“Garak,” Julian called just before Garak pushed the opening pad. “I—thank you. I wish…I wish I could go to Commander Sisko myself, and I’m sorry you have to. It means—it means a great deal—”

“Dr. Bashir,” Garak interrupted, accepting the distance Julian needed for this moment. “You tracked down Enabran Tain for me, once. Surely I can face Benjamin Sisko.”

Julian blinked at him and smiled, close-lipped but true. Garak nodded in return and left.

He waited until he was very nearly to the turbolift before turning and punching a deep dent into the wall paneling, willing his stomach to stop heaving within him, tasting the slightly stale air of the hallway like sweet water in a Cardassian dust summer, washing the smell of violation out of his mouth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case you can't tell, I love writing Garak so very much and I would never ever want to be on his bad side.
> 
> Also, I think "I believe you" is the most powerful statement in the English language, even more so than "I love you," so be prepared for that to show up a whole lot in this while Julian unwinds this experience.


	4. Chapter 4

As he rode the turbolift up, Garak found himself marveling yet again at just how easy it was to get to Ops. Federation faith was one thing, but this level of open naivete that allowed him, a Cardassian civilian, simply to appear in Ops—it made Julian’s early and eager openness seem almost expected.

His heart constricted when he thought of just how much innocence Julian had lost in the last few years—and how much more last night.

“Garak?” Of course Miles O’Brien would be the first person he’d meet as the lift stopped. “What’re you doing in Ops?”

“I come seeking Commander Sisko on a matter of great urgency. Is he in?”

“What urgency?”

“Chief, now is really not the time to impede me. I must speak with the commander.”

Miles’ eyes narrowed and Garak fought the urge simply to shove past him. Julian was counting on him to do this well, and Garak couldn’t afford to alienate Julian’s best friend now.

“Yeah, he’s in,” said Miles at last, stepping out of the way. Garak nodded in curt thanks and continued on, feeling Kira and Jadzia’s eyes—indeed the entire Ops crew—on his back as he climbed the stairs to the commander’s office. As the doors slid open in answer to his hail, he did not turn around.

“Mr. Garak,” said Commander Sisko, hands folded on top of his desk. “Quite a surprise to see you here.”

“Commander,” responded Garak, “I’m afraid I haven’t time for pleasantries. I need you to come with me.”

Sisko’s eyebrows arched in amazement. “And why would I do that?”

“It’s Julian.”

Sisko stiffened in his seat. “What have you done to him?”

Garak barely stopped himself from rolling his eyes. “I have not—it was not me.” _Not directly_ , he thought bitterly to himself, but it was not time for that yet.

“Is he alright?”

“Commander, please—”

“Why isn’t he in the infirmary?”

“ _Commander_ ,” said Garak firmly. “He is not in immediate physical danger, but he is not well and it is not my story to tell. I volunteered to bring you to his quarters so that he can tell that particular story, and it is with the deepest level of confidentiality that I do so because the story is—is of a sensitive nature. Please; we must be quick, as I do not wish to leave him alone for long.”

Sisko eyed Garak skeptically, weighing the tale. “Why isn’t he in the infirmary?”

Garak’s face darkened. “It was his choice not to go there, and I can answer further questions on the way but for Julian’s sake, _come with me_.”

The commander hesitated, searching Garak’s eyes. A second time, Garak forced himself to stillness, cursing the delay. Anyone on the station could get to Ops, it would seem, but a Cardassian seeking help for an officer couldn’t be trusted—guls blast these Starfleet fools for never seeing threats where they _actually_ were.

“‘Julian’?” Sisko said softly.

Garak said nothing. Sisko nodded.

“Lead the way.”

Garak breathed again, unsure when he’d stopped doing so. He turned and nearly ran back to the lift, barely hearing Sisko say that he’d be back, Kira had Ops, comm if needed.

Mercifully, Sisko was quiet on the lift. He let Garak step out first and followed, scanning the corridor. He noted a large dent in the wall, filing it away to tell maintenance, wondering how it had come to be, seeing suddenly the dark scrapes on Garak’s right hand. Garak hurried on and Sisko did not ask.

“H¬–hello?” Bashir’s voice when Garak pushed the chime for his quarters was strained, flat, and small. Sisko’s focus sharpened.

“Julian, it’s Elim. I’ve brought Commander Sisko.”

There was a pause, and Sisko pondered the brand-new evidence that Garak had another name—a name Bashir knew.

“Just the commander?” said that small voice.

“Just the commander,” Garak reassured it.

The door slid open and Garak again led the way. Sisko entered and first noticed the disarray of the room. Possessions and furniture were askew as though quite the fistfight had taken place. As he turned toward the doctor, Sisko noticed then the disarray of the man.

Livid bruises and deep gouges circled Julian Bashir’s lower face, and a clear handprint enclosed his throat just above the collar of his sweater. He held himself stiffly about half a meter away from Garak, who was turned completely toward Bashir but very obviously respecting the distance between them.

“Doctor, I should call—”

“Commander, please.” Julian’s voice was still that broken and small thing, although Sisko wondered less at it now that he had such bruises to judge by. “I am so sorry to bring you here, and I know protocol states that it should have been Odo, but for now, please, let this just be us.”

Sisko let his hand drop from his combadge. “What happened?”

Bashir fidgeted and Garak stepped forward. He raised a hand, let it drop, curled it into a fist at his side. “Would it be better to sit, Julian?”

Bashir nodded, eyes on the floor. Garak gestured the commander to the armchair as he took the sofa, still carefully keeping space between himself and the doctor. Sisko sat, reading the need for his silent listening in every taut line of Bashir’s body under the bulk of the off-duty clothing. Sisko wondered where Bashir’s uniform was.

Bashir sat for about three seconds before he sprang up and began pacing, arms hugged tightly around himself. “I came back here last night after drinks with Miles and I was reading—I have a conference soon, I need to prepare, I need—” He stopped, gathered himself, turned back to Garak and Sisko, still seated. “My door chimed and I asked who it was—and it was Dukat.” Sisko noted that Garak’s grey hands turned white in their grip on his knees at the name. “I thought he was sick, but he wouldn’t tell me why he wasn’t at the infirmary and I thought it was a privacy thing because, well, Cardassians aren’t exactly open about themselves.”

A small, almost inaudible snort from Garak.

“And he said that he would tell me if I let him in and—I did, I _let him in_ , why the _fuck_ am I that _stupid_?” He began to pull on his hair and Garak stood abruptly, hands held out as he stepped slightly closer to Bashir but still distant.

“Julian,” he said, his tone stern—Sisko felt he’d heard that tone come from his own mouth on more than one occasion of focusing an unruly Jake. “Julian, Commander Sisko needs to hear the full story. Don’t stop and get lost in analyzing it yet.”

Bashir shook for a moment before looking at Garak and nodding, slowly letting his hands resume their position around his chest. Garak slowly sat back down, eyes never leaving Bashir’s. Sisko remained still, marveling at this entirely new side of the Cardassian tailor that was acting as a grounding agent for the distraught officer.

“He came in,” Bashir resumed, “and he—and we talked; he was drunk, or had been drinking, and we argued, and I told him to get out but he wouldn’t, and we started to fight. I—I don’t remember who threw the first punch.”

Sisko felt that something was missing. What had they talked about that escalated to arguing and had ended in the fight that had turned this room into such a mess? Dukat was certainly a frustrating man with no end to his taunts—and a drunken Dukat would be infinitely more so—but Bashir was usually as level-headed as they came, at least in his professional capacity. Sisko tucked away the questions, realizing an interruption now would be as unhelpful as Bashir’s interruption of himself.

“I couldn’t—he was wearing his armor, and he was so strong; Cardassians are quite strong, generally, it’s the muscle arrangement, and the scales. He knocked me out; Dukat, Dukat knocked me out. When I came to, I—I was in the bedroom.”

He paused, pulling further into himself, his eyes locked on the floor, and the bruises that couldn’t have come from a brawl started to have a name. Sisko felt his face harden, his heart turn to ice, but still he kept his silence.

“He—I…he r-raped me, Commander,” and Bashir choked on the word. “I know that I should report this to Odo, that you have a whole station to run, and I’m sorry, I wasn’t going to report it at all.”

“Not report it?!” said Sisko, incredulously bursting into the narrative. “Doctor, a crime of this magnitude happening on this station damn well _better_ be reported.”

“That was roughly what Garak said,” Bashir responded softly.

Sisko swallowed, breathed, flattened out his own fury at Dukat, at the pain he could not erase from the doctor’s lithe frame. “Yes, Odo will eventually have to be brought in, but this is not unimportant to me at all. Thank you for trusting me with this, for letting me _see_.”

Bashir jerked his head in a nod.

Sisko sighed, biting down the waves of frustration rolling through him. “Dukat’s ship left early this morning; his business here was finished and there was no reason for him to remain.” He saw Garak’s body somehow tense even further at the news. “The Federation has no treaty with Cardassia that gives me the authority to pull him back to stand trial for this, but I agree with Garak.”

Garak looked directly at him for the first time since they’d entered, surprise and gratitude flashing over his features. Sisko gave him a short nod before returning his attention to Bashir. “Document everything and file an official report—give me something to work with. I know that it will be hard, and I will do my best to keep this as confidential as possible. I may not be able to drag Dukat back here, but I can be sure he answers for this if he sets so much as a scale in Federation space. To hell with whatever he may or may not be to Cardassia at that point; he will be held to account, and I will use every ounce of my authority to prosecute him for this. The documentation will help nail that down. Is that an acceptable plan for you, Doctor?”

Bashir took several deep breaths. “I don’t…I don’t want people to know.”

“I understand that. Odo will need to, but you as CMO can keep the medical aspects of this under your care.”

“Will—never mind,” Bashir cut himself off.

“Will what?”

A new kind of embarrassment flitted over Bashir’s face as he raised his eyes to meet Sisko’s at last. “Will you be there when I have to tell Odo?”

That same sense of remembering Jake flowed through Sisko’s mind; though Bashir was barely ten years his junior, there was something so young about him that surprised Sisko sometimes, especially given his different demeanor when in professional mode. This was anything but.

“If you would like me to be, yes,” Sisko answered.

“Then it is an acceptable plan,” Bashir said, his voice brushing against its usual brash tone.

“In the meantime, you need to document everything,” Sisko continued. “I take it you don’t want Odo here?”

Bashir shook his head quickly. “I know it would be easier, but I can do a holoscan so Odo can have it for later. It’s not as though he needs to look for clues, like when Quark got involved with Mrs. Vaatrik. And I can do the medical scans on myself.”

“I’ll let the infirmary know that you’ll be taking some time off,” said Sisko.

“The infirmary!” Bashir sprang forward to the comm panel on the wall. “Bashir to Infirmary,” he said.

“Jabara here,” came a terse tone of annoyance and some concern. “Doctor, you were scheduled to come on shift nearly an hour ago. Mr. Garak had said he would check on you and we never heard from him; we’ve been trying to reach you. The computer said you were in your quarters, but you didn’t answer any hails and when neither you nor Garak arrived we called up to Ops to see if they knew anything. They said they hadn’t heard from you but that Garak had left with the commander in quite a hurry. We were about to get Odo to come check on you. Is everything okay?”

“I’m so sorry, Nurse Jabara, I—Garak and the commander are here with me and we’ve gotten caught up in a—project. I had my comm turned off and I forgot that I had done that. I know that it’s short notice, but I won’t be coming in today.” The strong and even tone Bashir had pulled from who knew where to speak to Jabara was beginning to falter.

Sisko stood and crossed to the panel. “Nurse Jabara, this is Commander Sisko. I need to take Dr. Bashir off of active duty for the next couple of days; I regret the inconvenience and the lack of communication.”

“Yes, sir,” replied Jabara, obviously displeased. “We’ll rework the duty roster for the next two days.”

“Thank you, Nurse. Sisko out.”

Bashir thunked his head against the wall. “I can’t believe I left them in the lurch like that.”

“Actually, doctor, some of that was my doing,” said Garak, rising as well. “I did tell them not to worry and then never reported back.”

“It doesn’t much matter whose fault was what,” interrupted Sisko, “but I do have to get back to Ops. Garak, since you own your shop you can determine your hours. I doubt I have to do anything so formal as assign you to—assist Dr. Bashir in the filing of this report, but can you spare the time to do so?”

“Willingly,” said Garak.

“Good. Dr. Bashir, if you need anything else, comm me directly this time. Having Garak run through my Ops was rather more excitement than some of the crew need at the moment. Once you set a time to go speak with Odo, let me know.” He moved toward the door and looked back, waiting until Bashir looked him in the eye. “Doctor, I stand with you in this. Whatever you need from me, ask. You are a valued officer. I do not want you to think you need handle this alone. Clear?”

Bashir blinked several times. “Clear, sir.”

Sisko nodded and left.

Garak and Julian stood for a moment. “Did you really run through Ops?” asked Julian, breaking the silence.

“My dear doctor,” Garak murmured with mock horror, “Cardassians never suffer the indignity of running.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Space Dad Sisko is also not someone to cross, I feel. The way I write him is indelibly marked by the absolutely fabulous fic "The Manipulation of Julian Bashir" by The Tystie over on fanfiction.net. It is _so good_ and if you haven't read it, you very much should. It's not Garashir--Garak is hardly in it, actually--but it is a marvelous examination of the Federation's attitudes toward augments. An incredible book.
> 
> Also, I get that holoscans require more than just a regular tricorder and that it would be unlikely that Bashir would have the tech lying around, but roll with it.
> 
> Very brief shoutout to s2ep8, "Necessary Evil," here, for all you DS9 fans playing along at home.


	5. Chapter 5

Commander Sisko knew that he needed to return to Ops, knew that he needed to check in with the crew and let them know Garak hadn’t secreted him off somewhere, knew that he had a whole station to run beyond the problems of one doctor. He knew a lot of things.

He also knew that he had to do something with the sick anger roiling in his stomach that couldn’t come to Ops with him.

Glad that Jake was at school, he headed to his quarters. Although it was by no means soundproof, it was relatively private. It also had several soft things to hit, which would save him the scrapes he had seen on Garak’s hand.

Dukat had stood in his office _yesterday morning_ and assured him that, while there was no love between the Federation and Cardassia, there was at least not open antagonism. He had said—but what use was it to remember what Dukat had said? He had proven himself over and over a liar. And, if the very few stories to which Kira and Odo had alluded were true, he had quite the selfish, sadistic streak as well. Although Sisko couldn’t understand _why_ Dukat had assaulted Bashir, he could readily believe that Dukat _had_.

Except…he knew why, didn’t he? Garak’s gentle tone, his complete attention to Bashir, even his braving Ops to retrieve Sisko—there was no way the Cardassian would have entered such completely enemy territory unless propelled by something stronger than his exile.

Could it be that the tailor was in love with the doctor? But why would Dukat care so much about that? There was no love lost between them; Sisko had watched Garak’s careful undercutting of Dukat with the Cardassian child and knew there was more going on between them than simple animosity. Would that be enough to put Bashir in Dukat’s crosshairs?

Sisko poured himself a whiskey, aware that it was the middle of the day, that he was on duty, that it was irresponsible. He didn’t care. He kept seeing the bruises on Bashir’s face; he could only imagine what was under the sweater and trousers. His fingers curled tighter around the glass; how _dare_ Dukat commit such an act, against _his_ officer, on _his_ station.

Sisko closed his eyes and set down the tumbler. “It’s not yours,” he told himself softly. “That boy has been through hell and is about to go into a whole new wing of it. If this is about your pride, you might as well stay out of it.” He wished, suddenly, for Curzon’s advice, but he knew better than to betray Bashir’s trust like that. Garak had been right; this was his story, and he got to decide who knew it.

Sisko looked steadily at the whiskey, raging, wringing the absent neck of Dukat, tearing off his neck ridges in his mind. Then he took a deep breath, bolted the drink, and left for Ops.

***

Julian had not moved for several minutes. Having supported him through the conversation with Sisko, Garak had let Julian stand still, looking over the chaos of the room, until he realized that Julian wasn’t still—he was shaking.

“Julian?” said Garak, alarmed, taking one step closer but mindfully keeping space.

Julian leaned against the wall, almost on top of the comm panel. “The panel was _right here_ ,” he whispered. “All of this—it’s not a big room. It was so close, and I couldn’t make it.”

Garak closed his eyes briefly. “Julian, where is your holorecorder? Let’s take a scan of this.”

Julian stared at nothing, began breathing more deeply, did not look Garak in the eye. He gestured to a cabinet on the far side of the room and Garak crossed, searched, found the device.

“Would you like to do this?” he asked Julian, holding it up.

Julian shook his head, wrapping his arms around his body, holding his side gently.

Garak scanned the room, asking Julian to move when needed, making sure to get every angle. He went into the bedroom and repeated his movements, then the bathroom, holding his mouth firmly closed against the still-heavy scent. The blood smeared across the two rooms made him feel sick anyway. Recordings finished, he returned to the living room.

“Julian?” he asked. Julian had not moved from the comm panel. “Julian, I think it unwise for you to stay here.”

“I have to do the medical scans,” Julian mumbled to the floor. It was just barely loud enough for Garak to hear.

“I know, but you don’t have to do them here.”

“I won’t go to the infirmary.” Julian’s voice firmed and became louder in his anxiety.

“No, no,” Garak soothed. He hesitated. “We could do them in my quarters.” He held his hands up at Julian’s start. “I recognize that they may not be ideal, but I don’t think this place is doing you any favors.”

Julian looked curiously at him. “Why are you doing this?”

Garak cocked his head. “What?”

“Turning your life upside down for me.”

“Are we not a pair together?”

“Sure, but under the radar. You just outed yourself to the _commander_ , and now you’re sacrificing your workday to—to babysit me, and you’re giving up part of your quarters even though I can’t—I can’t—”

“Julian,” interrupted Garak. He longed to cross the room, to hold Julian by the shoulders, to _make him look at him_ , to _see_ his eyes—but he remained where he was. “We could hardly have kept this a secret for much longer. It’s not a terribly big station.”

“We can both keep big secrets,” Julian insisted.

Garak inclined his head, conceding the point. “But this need no longer be one of them. I’m not saying that I’m going to stand on Quark’s bar and announce it, but I—I care about you, and I think that telling Commander Sisko about it, especially in order to be of use to you, makes sense in light of that.”

Julian shrugged and Garak swallowed the pain of that dismissal. They had not gotten to any language of shared feelings as yet; neither of them was going to be the first to bring that dreaded complexity of “love” into the mix, whether it was true or not. Garak wasn’t even sure it was true—but then, truth was such a slippery thing. To say that he cared was as close as they had come, and while the timing was admittedly terrible Julian’s shrug was more piercing than he might have thought.

“Come to my quarters, Julian. You can do the medical scans there.”

“Not yet.” Julian looked around the room and then set to righting it, moving the furniture back into place, setting the padds to rights. He picked up Kukulaka and fondly rubbed a hand over its head. Garak stayed where he was, feeling as though he were interrupting when Julian put the bear to his own forehead and whispered something to it before setting it back on its shelf. Squaring his shoulders, Julian went into the bedroom. Garak took a few steps to follow him but checked himself. Julian needed to reclaim this space; he knew that. In a few moments Julian returned, arms full of the bedding and the blood-browned rope. He tossed them in the recycler.

“I don't want these here when I return,” Julian said. “The memory comes with me, but the tangibility of it doesn’t have to.”

Garak completely agreed.

“Shall we?” said Julian, after looking around the room once more and setting his body rigidly against it.

Garak bowed and led the way out, oddly envious of a stuffed toy bear.

***

Back in his office, Sisko hesitated before sending his message. It would be a tricky dance of confidentiality, but this was immediate. He sighed and hit transmit.

It was a surprisingly short time before his incoming message chime sounded and he quickly opened the window. “Admiral Nechayev,” he said, “thank you for taking the time.”

“What is it, Commander? Your message said it was quite time-sensitive.”

“Yes.” _Prophets, give me the words_. “There’s been an assault on the station.”

“Greater than could be handled in-house?”

“No,” Sisko reassured her, “but it was perpetrated by Dukat, formerly prefect of this station for the Cardassian Union.”

“Ah,” said Nechayev. “I’ve heard of this Dukat. He seems like a piece of work. I assume he’s gone back into Cardassian space?”

“That’s where he was headed, anyway. I’ll have my security chief file the appropriate warnings and watches, but I wanted to make sure that there’s a net awareness that Dukat has crimes to answer for here if he should ever fall under Federation jurisdiction.”

“Commander, if Dukat gets into any further trouble—as may well be the case, since things are not getting any easier on the border and many Cardassian officers are resorting to ‘any means necessary’ law—then your assault case will be quite far down the list.”

“Admiral, please. It was—it was a Starfleet officer, and the officer deserves justice.”

The admiral paused for a moment, reading Sisko’s face over the comm line. “Alright,” she said at last. “I’ll put out the word that if Dukat shows up—and that’s a big ‘if,’ Commander—then you want a piece of him. I guarantee nothing.”

“The word is enough, Admiral. Thank you.”

“Your officer—is she alright?” Nechayev asked.

Sisko thought about correcting her and decided against it, for now. “They have good support here, Admiral, so I think they will be.”

Admiral Nechayev nodded. “Glad to hear it. Nechayev out.”

Sisko sighed deeply and leaned back, palming his baseball and gently tossing it back and forth. More than 200 years Starfleet had been in operation, had dedicated itself to exploration from a base of equality, and Nechayev still assumed Dukat’s victim was female. It stood to reason, given the other stories about his exploits, but Sisko wondered if this would be yet another part of the grueling path ahead for Bashir. 

He caught the baseball a final time and told himself to get back to work.

***

Thankfully, Garak and Julian hadn’t met anyone on the way to Garak’s quarters; it was, after all, late morning and there were few people wandering around the habitat ring. They hadn’t said anything on the way; although Garak wanted dearly to know what Julian had whispered to his bear, he did not ask. 

Garak led the way inside, uncharacteristically nervous at having Julian in his space. Although they had not been romantically together long and had hardly been open about it, they had become familiar enough that Garak considered Julian to be welcome.

He had spent enough time here, including that business with the implant. Garak remembered toppling through a table. He wondered if Julian thought about that in this space and realized he had never asked.

“Well, we should do this,” Julian said, interrupting Garak’s thoughts. “There will be some things I can’t reach to record. Will you be okay doing that if I tell you what to do?”

“Of course,” Garak responded. The knife’s-edge efficiency of Julian’s voice centered him, focused him. If this was to be a professional endeavor, he could match Julian step for step.

Or so he thought, as Julian began to undress completely. Though none of the markings were new, the bruises had had time to deepen and burst into multiple colors. The rage welled up in Garak’s chest again, burning through his veins with the scratching grit of a Cardassian summer wind. The abrasions on Julian’s arms from the rope made it clear that he had fought the entire way. Had he called for help? The handprint on his face indicated an attempt was likely. Had he kept calling? 

Had he cursed the name of the man who had brought this on him?

“Garak?” Julian asked. “I said, could you scan this over my back?”

“Yes,” Garak said, shaking himself back into the present. “Yes, Doctor.”

“Even and steady lines, so the tricorder can accurately measure distance and depth.” Julian held his arms out like wings. Neither man commented on the tremor that shook them.

Methodically working his way down Julian’s back, Garak tried to redirect his mind. This was not unlike measuring someone for a suit: wingspan, shoulder breadth, waistline, jacket length, inseam. He would use a tape measure, of course, for true accuracy, but the centimeters between the tricorder and Julian’s skin might as well have been kilometers. Touch was not an option, not now. Garak scanned all the way to Julian’s heels, clenching his teeth hard enough to make stars spark in his eyes as he passed over the dried blood down Julian’s thighs. He cleared his throat as he reached the floor. “Finished,” he said.

“Right,” answered Julian, turning. He stepped backward quickly when he realized that Garak was now kneeling in front of him, his face level with Julian’s hip creases. A cascade of memories from that suggestive pose tumbled through Garak’s mind; he rolled them through and locked them away. Neither man was even in the same quadrant as a desire for sex at the moment.

Julian took the tricorder and scanned his front with the same slow, even lines, Garak standing awkwardly in front of him, watching. It was the least voyeuristic voyeurism he could remember and he wondered if Julian felt like this, what with the sheer amount of bodies he saw in his work.

Of course, very few of them had to be totally naked, these days. The voyeurism lessened considerably when people remained mostly clothed.

Finished, Julian straightened. “One more thing, and then that will be the finished scan. Do you mind—do you mind if I use your bedroom?”

Confused, Garak nodded. “Whatever you need. Do you require assistance?”

“No,” said Julian, too suddenly. “This last part—I do not want you to see this last piece.” His eyes were suddenly flat, emotionless beyond professionalism, and Garak realized that allowing him to be part of this much was an expression of—something, something incredible on Julian’s part. He would not have let his staff see this.

Garak breathed steadily. “Whatever you need,” he repeated softly. “I will be here.”

Julian looked at him for a long moment, searching the depth of the promise. Eventually he nodded, a bare tip of his head, before retreating to the bedroom with the tricorder.

Garak realized he did not want to know what this one last piece required.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the episode shout-out scorecard, here we have a reference to s2ep5, "Cardassians."
> 
> For the record, what Julian said to Kukalaka was, "I'm sorry you had to see that, but I'm glad you didn't see what came next." Don't worry, I am also crying over here.


	6. Chapter 6

After some time, Julian returned to the living room where Garak had settled himself onto a couch with a padd that he did not read.

“Might I ask your help again?” Julian said. “Or am I interrupting?” The normalcy of the question was belied by the strain in Julian’s voice. Whatever he had needed to do had cost him.

“Of course, Doctor,” said Garak, laying the padd beside him.

“The scans are complete, so I can begin dermal regeneration. But I can’t reach most of the—most of the cuts.” The break in his voice was quickly smoothed over, smothered beneath the doctor’s brisk efficiency.

Garak nodded and held out a hand for the dermal regenerator. “Will this be enough or are there other—other injuries you need to tend?”

Julian tensed at Garak’s own vocal break. “I have fixed everything else already.”

Ah. Garak forced himself to think through what that might mean as he ran the regenerator over the beginnings of Julian’s wounds. The list of possibilities made him angrier and angrier until his grip slipped on the regenerator and it swept over Julian’s shoulder blade.

“Easy!” Julian yelped, feeling the beam glance over smooth skin.

“Doctor, I—my apologies, Doctor,” said Garak, fuming at himself for letting his emotions crowd so thickly.

“Garak,” said Julian, turning around. “Are you all right?”

Garak stared at him for a moment, at the purpled handprints on his jaw and throat, at the shallow scratches on his torso, at the half-healed rope burns across his arms, and started laughing, a sick and strangled kind of laugh.

“Garak?” asked Julian, concerned.

“Julian,” cackled Garak, “by what twisted Federation sense of concern are _you_ asking _me_ if I’m all right?”

Understanding chased confusion through Julian’s hazel eyes. “The one that knows I must heal these before I do anything else, and that needs you to be well enough to help.”

That sobered Garak considerably. “I am well enough.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. Julian, I am sorry. My mind wandered.”

Julian grimaced. “Do I want to know where?”

Garak wondered whether that was Julian attempting an innuendo, decided against it. He decided on honesty instead—far less familiar territory. “I don’t know. Do you?”

Julian looked at him intently. “Let me guess. Revenge?”

Cocking his head in a vain attempt at finding their usual bantering tone, Garak responded, “Very good, Doctor. You _are_ learning.”

“Don’t,” Julian said quietly. “You promised.”

“I have promised to do nothing without you. I have several scenarios, however, to which you may be amenable and which I would be happy to enact with your full blessing—”

“Garak!” The shout was all the harsher for its contrast to the calm steadiness of the voice Julian had been using since entering the quarters. “I said no!”

“You said—”

“I know what I said! Or have you forgotten the eidetic memory? The brain that is currently working overtime to stand naked in front of you in your quarters and not peel off my own skin rather than patching it back up? The body that is pushing itself to heal faster than is humanly possible because I’m not human, am I, except I am human enough to break? The reflexes that are screaming to run from this place to anywhere I am unknown, to anywhere I can be unseen, forgotten, where I could even begin to attempt to forget myself that I couldn’t—that I didn’t—” With a snarl, Julian wrenched himself away from Garak, crossing to the window and folding his long arms around his torso.

“Julian, I—”

“Are you angry, Garak?” said Julian, turning back to him.

Garak clenched his fist around the regenerator in answer.

“Why?”

“Why—what? What do you mean, ‘why’?”

“Why are you angry?”

“Because of what he did to you!” Now it was Garak shouting. “Because of every cut and every bruise you have! Because of whatever you had to do that you couldn’t bear me seeing! Because of what you have to remember now! Because this is _my_ war with Dukat, not yours! Because—because I brought this on you and I couldn’t stop it!”

There. The sick hatred of himself for dragging Julian into this old feud was out in the open. Julian had every right to take it up and beat him to death with it.

“You think this is your fault?” Julian asked, gesturing to himself.

Garak nodded.

“You’re right.”

Garak had thought his heart had been shattered beyond shattering that day. He was wrong. He could almost hear it splinter under Julian’s acknowledgement of the truth of his guilt and dropped his gaze to the floor.

“But that doesn’t matter.”

Garak looked up, ridges drawn together in uncertainty.

“I don’t really care _why_ this happened to me, Garak. You’re angry? Good. You should be, because this sort of thing is wrong and sexual assault is always, always a thing about which to get angry. But you told me when I said that I wanted to move beyond friendship that being with you had a lot of strings attached and a lot of possible consequences. You didn’t tell me this one—I don’t think even you expected this one, but here we are. It’s not okay, and yes, I will bear this for a long, long time, and I don’t even know where to start with how fucked up my brain is trying to hold the fear and pain of it. You’re angry? Well and good, but listen to me, Elim Garak—you cannot be even _one-tenth_ as angry as I am. This is _my_ pain, and I appreciate that you value me enough to be hurt by it, but it is _my pain_. Dukat took _my_ body, ignored _my_ protestations, r-raped _me_. You may have caused it, in the loosest terms of ‘cause,’ but if you act out of whatever anger you have then _you are overriding what I asked of you and you are the same as he is_.” Julian paused to take a deep breath and Garak stood utterly still, shocked at the comparison. “He took my body, but I will _not_ allow you to take my agency of spirit, and I’ll be damned if I’m having my consent ignored all over again, _especially_ not by the one person I trust to help me heal from this. I get that you are angry, and I am so angry I could burst from it, but I have worked with enough assault survivors to know that living in that anger does kill you, eventually, so if you’re serious about doing ‘whatever I need,’ then _fucking get over yourself and help me heal_.”

The two stared at each other for several minutes, Julian breathing hard enough to shudder from it, Garak barely breathing at all. Eventually, Garak crossed the room, holding the regenerator up in silent question. Julian exhaled deeply and nodded, tears and sweat running over the bruise on his face that Garak started with, one steady swipe of the regenerator at a time.

***

It was, all in all, a fine day. An illegal shipment supporting Quark’s latest illegal scheme had been intercepted and confiscated—as a bonus, the bartender had been suitably alarmed by how close security had come to being able to tie him to it. A would-be Benzite thief now sat simmering in a cell. And Dukat and his crew were off the station and light years away. Yes, Odo thought to himself, it was a fine day.

“Sisko to Odo,” his combadge chirped.

“Odo here,” he responded, setting aside the padd he’d been reading.

“Constable, unless you have something pressing, I will meet you in your office at 1600 hours. Can you do that?”

Damping his curiosity and questions, Odo replied, “I will be here. Should I prepare for anything in particular?”

“There will be a report filed.” A pause hovered over the line. “If you could make sure your office is clear of all other personnel, that would be helpful. Sisko out.”

Odo sat back in his chair, wondering. What on Bajor could the commander be filing that required such confidentiality? His face clouded; likely, this would be the end of his fine day.

It never failed.

He sighed for the expressiveness of it and returned to his report, waiting.

***

At 1545 hours, Garak tapped lightly on the top edge of Julian’s padd. “It is time to go meet Odo and the commander,” he said softly.

Julian sighed and stood up from the couch. For a brief second, he and Garak were nose-to-nose, breathing together.

Garak stepped back and clasped his hands in front of him.

Julian closed his eyes, breathing deeply, several memory tracks running over and through each other: Garak’s lips on his, Dukat’s teeth scraping against his jaw, Melora’s body suspended just in front of him, Garak’s breath against his throat, Dukat’s—

“Julian.”

Julian opened his eyes and refocused. Garak had not moved, but the intensity with which he watched Julian made him wonder if Garak somehow knew how overwhelmed he was just by being conscious. Garak often seemed to know him better than was strictly probable.

“We can come back here once you’re done, if you like,” Garak said. “No detours.”

Julian nodded jerkily, pulling his arms tightly around his torso. If he was this overwhelmed just by standing too close to Garak, how on earth was he going to have this conversation with Odo? Or even make it Odo’s office? He had to look casual, not draw attention to himself. He looked again at Garak, marveling at his steady calmness that seemed effortless. Even though he knew full well how high the cost had been, he envied the hell out of the Obsidian Order training that made a man smooth as mirrored glass.

He strode out the door without letting himself think it over, leaving Garak to collect the pair of tricorders as they left.

Most of the journey—which felt miserably long and exposed to Julian—was uneventful. Julian had never been more grateful for Garak’s comparative isolation on the station: while no one was outright cruel to him, very few engaged him in genial small talk. Garak was not a man with whom one chatted inconsequentially, and Julian hiding in Garak’s shadow was all too grateful to be left alone. A part of him mourned what this must be like on a daily basis for Garak; he understood anew why the implant had been such a temptation. But today, he was grateful above all else.

Their luck ran out on the Promenade.

“Julian!” called Jadzia Dax from just outside of Quark’s. “Julian, wait a moment.”

Garak looked to Julian, who nodded briefly.

“Julian, I heard you were pulled off duty,” Jadzia said when she caught up with them. “Are you okay?”

An approximation of a smile appeared on Julian’s face. “I just need to take a few days. You sure heard about it quickly.”

Jadzia grinned. “You know I like to know what’s going on around the station. But it would seem that my sources are failing me,” she said, looking at Garak and noticing how closely he stood. She nodded to him. “Garak.” Her voice was thick with curiosity.

“Lieutenant Dax,” Garak said in return. “If you’ll excuse us, we have to meet the commander.”

Jadzia looked at Julian, her eyebrows waggling. “‘We’? Julian, are you and Garak taking off to Risa together?”

Julian pulled tightly into himself, his smile even more stretched and unreal. “Quite a leap, Jadzia,” he laughed forcefully. “No, I can definitely say we are not going to Risa.”

“Julian?” Jadzia’s smile faded as she heard the false laugh, realized the fake smile. “ _Are_ you okay?” She put a hand on Julian’s shoulder; he flinched, and anger, chagrin, and anguish flashed across his face in split-second frames.

“Julian—”

“Jadzia, I can’t talk right now. I have to go; I’ll—I’ll talk to you later. Please, go.”

Jadzia looked at him searchingly. She looked at Garak, who bowed his head to her. Looking back over her shoulder several times, she returned to the lift toward which she’d been heading.

Almost as soon as the lift doors closed behind her, Julian began to shake, his breathing shallowing and his eyes darting around the Promenade sightlessly. “I can’t, Garak, I can’t do this, I don’t want to do this, I couldn’t even look her in the eye, how the _hell_ am I going to talk to _Odo_ , Odo who already thinks I’m an idiot, Odo who will tell me that I shouldn’t be so naïve, I never wanted to report this, I can’t—”

“Julian.”

“This was a mistake, this was always a mistake, and now I’m going to have to explain it to Jadzia and I can’t stand her pity, I just—”

“ _Julian_."

“I couldn’t even let her _touch_ me how the hell am I going to do my _job_ if I can’t—” 

“ _Julian Subatoi Bashir, look at me_ ,” Garak demanded, his titanium-strength inquisitor’s voice smoothly surfacing. Julian looked at him, those beautiful hazel eyes filled with panic, memory—and surprise.

Garak would consider the implications of Julian knowing of the existence of that tone later. “You are at the beginnings of a panic attack right now. Do you understand that?”

Julian blinked, his breath still shallow, his body still shaking, but his eyes focused. He nodded once, hesitantly.

“Have you had them before?” How had they not yet had this conversation, the claustrophobic exile and the self-doubting mutant?

Even more hesitantly, Julian nodded again.

Garak breathed out. “Do whatever you do to keep yourself grounded for five minutes while I go set up a holosuite. We can have the meeting in there so you’re not as visible. I will still be with you. You have five minutes. Is that manageable?”

A thousand things swept through Julian’s eyes; Garak did not try to categorize any of them. Unsteadily, Julian began to recite, “There are 206 bones in the human skeletal system, classified into five different types. Long bones have three main parts.” Garak nodded before briskly crossing to Quark’s.

Avoiding the ever-present Morn on the corner, Garak leaned over the bar. “Quark,” he called. The place was only just beginning to fill for the evening; the noise level was not yet intolerable, but Garak raised his voice and repeated himself anyway. “Quark!”

The Ferengi crossed to him, a towel and bottle in hand. “Rather early for you, isn’t it, Garak? Still, rough days are rough days. What can I get you?”

“A holosuite, right now.”

“A holosuite? Not usually your style—and booking them takes—”

Garak leaned further over the bar to be as close into Quark’s space as possible and bared his teeth in what could be called a smile only by the most optimistic of cultures. “A holosuite. Now. In fairness for the short notice, I will pay you double and I will not break into your establishment, gather every piece of latinum you have hidden away here, and toss the lot through the wormhole.”

Quark looked horrified. “What—what makes you think I keep my latinum _here_?”

Garak merely looked at him.

“Right,” said Quark, smoothing his waistcoat. He glanced around and saw Bashir talking to himself on the Promenade, tucked away against the wall. Garak watched him draw the same wrong conclusion Jadzia had, and let him.

“Ah, right _now_ ,” Quark said knowingly, tapping a finger to his lobe. “Well, you can only have it an hour because a more considerate person has it booked after that, but I accept your double payment. Do you want one of the, hmm, spa programs? They’re quite popular.”

“I do not,” Garak said, thumbing in his payment. “I have one in mind.” Ignoring Quark’s raised brow, he went to collect Julian.

“The scapula articulates with the clavicle via the acromion to hold the acromioclavicular joint of the appendicular skeleton,” Julian was informing himself as Garak approached him.

“Julian?” Garak interrupted, holding both hands out in front of himself.

Julian looked at him, eyes half-clouded.

“Julian, we’re going to go to a holosuite. You need to have some space right now, I believe. Care to go to San Francisco?”

Julian’s eyes cleared and he nodded, a small smile brightening his face in an almost child-like way.

“Can you get there while I collect Odo and the commander or shall I walk with you?”

Julian looked doubtfully at Quark’s, at the crowd of people between him and the stairs, at Quark unashamedly watching them. He took a deep breath, unfolded his arms, and continued, “The axial skeleton includes the skull, vertebral column, and thoracic cage,” as he crossed the Promenade and ignored Quark on his way to the stairs.

Garak only spared a moment of what might have been pride before turning to the security office.

“Garak, where is Bashir?” Sisko asked as soon as he entered.

“There was a minor setback,” Garak said, “which is more inconvenience than anything else. Dr. Bashir needed to be in a more congenial setting, so he is currently in holosuite two awaiting us.”

“A holosuite?” said Odo, gruffly. “What on Bajor do I need to go to a holosuite for? Commander, what is going on here?”

Sisko sighed. “Odo—look, if Bashir is that compromised, let me give you the basics so you know what to ask. Last night, Bashir was sexually assaulted by Dukat.”

Odo’s eyes widened briefly before narrowing in the righteous anger peculiar to him.

“Garak, did you get the scans?”

“Here,” Garak said, producing the pair of tricorders. “One is a complete scan of Dr. Bashir’s quarters as they were this morning. The other is a complete scan of Dr. Bashir himself and all of his…injuries.” He handed them to Odo but held onto the second one a moment longer, forcing Odo to look him in the eye. “I would encourage you to take the utmost care with the information here, Constable, since it is extremely sensitive in nature.”

Odo opened his mouth to retort but noted the hardness in Garak’s eyes. “I will be very discreet,” he said instead.

Garak nodded and let go.

“We know that it was Dukat and we know that you can’t do anything about it,” Sisko continued, “but I told Bashir to file as complete a report as possible just in case Dukat wanders back into Federation space. I want to nail this bastard to the wall, and I want to have every _i_ dotted and _t_ crossed so that I have no paperwork in the way when I do.”

“Understood,” said Odo. “I’d like to take a moment to glance through these scans so I can ask proper questions of the doctor.”

“Of course,” said Sisko. “We’ll head over to the holosuite and you can join us in a few minutes.”

Odo nodded his thanks, already focusing on the tricorders.

“Shall we, then?” said Garak.

“Lead the way,” replied Sisko.

The two left, exiting just as a deep rumble of anger sounded from Odo curled over the tricorder plugged into his console.

***

“I never took the commander for the type,” Quark said in soft, shocked tones to Morn as he handed over another drink. His eyes followed Garak and Sisko as they walked past and up to the holodeck, the one where he knew Julian Bashir was waiting.

Garak, Sisko, and Bashir? Quark filed away the improbability for later consideration; information like that on the commander of the station could be valuable indeed, though they'd hardly be this brazen about it. He wondered briefly about how he could monitor the suite for more detail before asking himself whether he really _wanted_ to.

Some minutes later, Odo came in and headed toward the holosuite also. On his way, he turned and looked at Quark, some extra sense alerted to Quark’s shock that _Odo_ was at all part of this. The look on his face was cold and sharp; Quark understood immediately that whatever was going on in that holosuite, it was not the information he thought he’d had. He hadn’t seen Odo that angry since the Cardassians had held Terok Nor—and he had not missed it. As Odo turned away and marched up the steps, Quark deleted every assumption in his mind and returned to the drink at hand, wondering what on Bajor would equal the old cruelty of Cardassians and would involve such an unlikely quartet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Episode scorecard: s2ep6, "Melora"
> 
> My thanks to the Open Textbook on Anatomy and Physiology hosted by BCcampus (British Columbia) for Julian's language of bone structure. Also, no, I have no idea how Garak knows about panic attacks or San Francisco; the man is a mystery even to me, and he has his ways of Knowing Things that he really shouldn't, by any logic. That said, he doesn't have any real idea how not to burn down the quadrant in order to get at Dukat, and that will be a problem. This be a recovery fic, y'all, but it's not just Julian who is recovering.


	7. Chapter 7

Sisko felt the rage billow in him again as Garak stepped aside to allow him into the holosuite. Bashir sat huddled on a beach, the familiar swoop of the Golden Gate Bridge extending out behind him. A breeze off the sea ruffled Bashir’s hair and he drew himself impossibly closer, pulling his sweater over his hands. Sisko felt Garak tighten next to him before striding forward. Sisko followed, wondering at being here in San Francisco on a beach he remembered from his own academy days. Of all the places Bashir could have gone to feel safe, why here? And how had he had a holosuite program of Starfleet Academy? Was this a place he frequented? Sisko could understand holding a fondness for the place—he had built a lot of good and deep memories of his own while studying there. But to build a program for it?

Was this what Bashir thought of as home?

“Julian,” Garak was calling, announcing their presence to the figure turned away from them. Bashir ran a sleeve over his face and stood, carefully composing his features. Sisko walked deliberately, not appreciative of the idea of sand in his shoes even though he knew it would not leave the holosuite with him.

“Is Odo not coming?” said Bashir as Sisko caught up.

“He’s on his way,” Sisko replied. “Doctor, I told Odo the basics of why he’s needed and Garak gave him the scans you did. So you don’t have to start from the very beginning.”

Bashir’s face compressed as he worked through the implications of that. “So what _do_ I need to tell him?”

“Whatever else he needs to know.”

Bashir looked pained. “Aren’t the scans enough? Isn’t that what you wanted?”

“What I—” Sisko paused. “Doctor, this is your report.”

“Which you and Garak told me to file!” Bashir retorted. “I don’t—gods, I don’t want to keep living this—”

Sisko noticed that Garak made an abortive move to put a hand on Bashir—for comfort? The layers to that man never ceased to surprise him. He briefly remembered a younger Bashir clamoring to all who would listen in Ops that a Cardassian spy was trying to connect with him, that perhaps O’Brien should put a monitoring device on him just in case.

How far they had come from that overreaction, it seemed.

“Doctor, I know that you were uncertain about filing this report—”

Bashir snorted. Sisko quelled his surprise at such a disrespectful response; Bashir had never been anything but courteous to him as the senior officer. This, however, was entirely different territory.

“—but it is important that this be in official records as a way to say that the Federation does not accept this kind of violence. It is an act of justice for you, Dr. Bashir.”

“Of justice,” Bashir responded flatly. “Of the justice of having to have my commanding officer made aware of one of the least pleasant experiences of my life? Of the justice of having to explain it to the station security chief who may or may not even understand the nuances of sexual acts? Or of the justice of having a Bajoran’s chance on Cardassia of ever actually holding Dukat accountable for this?”

“Of the justice of making the official statement, however confidentially it is kept, that Starfleet protects its own.”

Now it was Garak who scoffed.

“Care to add your own definition, Mr. Garak?” 

“Ah, Commander, I’m sure I have nothing to say about justice to two such fine Starfleet officers as yourselves. After all, justice is surely a cornerstone of the Federation.” His tone was honeyed and smooth, but even Garak couldn’t quite conceal the touch of sneer that slid along the word “Federation.”

“It is,” Sisko said tightly. To argue Federation morals with Garak was one thing—a thing he did not want to do—but to do so with Bashir was quite another. The anger, the shortness, the spiked dismissal rolling off him with as much relentlessness as the sea behind him made Sisko look again at the younger man. The bruises now were gone, but the disarray of the wrecked quarters from that morning was etched into Bashir’s posture and language. Sisko felt a pang of sorrow under his anger and frustration; Bashir was a good doctor and a good officer, and sometimes annoyingly naïve. To lose the naivete like this was not at all what Sisko would have wished, however often he had indeed wished for the man to grow up just a little bit more.

“Then justice will certainly find its way,” said Garak, and oh how much did Sisko hate all Cardassians in that moment for every reason under the stars.

Bashir was watching the sea stretch itself across the beach. “It doesn’t matter.”

Sisko felt the edges of the absurdity that he was the most idealistic person in this trio and suddenly, shockingly felt an intense frustration at Bashir for vacating the role. Since when had he come to rely on Bashir—on Julian—for his buoyant optimism? Since the Circle? The Skrreea? His own imprisonment and torture by Alixus? The standoff with Calvin Hudson? There was too much, too much these days, too much to be able to hold to his own hopes.

And now this. He watched Dr. Bashir not look him in the eye as he fidgeted with his sweater, and he knew that it didn’t matter if he needed Bashir to remind him of who he wanted the Federation to be—in this moment, Sisko was the Federation itself, and he could make himself be what he wanted.

“It matters,” he said softly. “It matters because you are one of my officers, Lieutenant Bashir, and I will not stand for anyone harming my officers. It matters because this act is wrong across the galaxy and we must condemn it as such. It matters, Julian, tremendously, and even if Dukat is never tried in a court of law I will not let this rest as though it is permissible in any way.”

Dr. Bashir focused on him for the first time at his own first name, eyes searching Sisko’s with an almost bottomless need in them. The weight of it was physical. _Prophets, give me strength_ , Sisko found himself praying. He felt himself stand a little bit taller.

“Where exactly is this?” he heard Odo ask behind him.

“We’re in San Francisco, Constable,” Sisko responded without looking away from Bashir. “It’s the headquarters of Starfleet; on Earth.”

Odo harrumphed his understanding. “Dr. Bashir.”

Bashir broke the contact with Sisko, turning inward on himself ever so slightly again. “Constable,” he replied, his gaze sliding over Odo and back toward the sea.

“I have looked through your scans,” Odo said, and his face held rage like lightning in its smooth planes. “Do you have anything to add?”

Bashir shook his head and crossed his arms tightly over his chest.

“Did Dukat mention anyone else with whom he had spoken before arriving at your quarters?”

“No,” said Julian.

“Did he bring the rope with him?”

Julian flinched. “I—I don’t know. I didn’t see it when he—when he came in, so he could have replicated it in my—in my quarters. I didn’t check the replicator logs. Or he could have had it under his—under his armor.” He swallowed in revulsion.

“Did Dukat say anything about where he was headed next?”

Bashir shook his head again.

“Did he mention anything about his connection to Cardassia?”

“I fail to see what relevance this has to the act in question,” Garak interrupted, stepping toward Odo.

“And I fail to see how I need to explain my investigation to you, but I do need to understand if there was anything mentioned about Dukat’s plans before I can go about the process of looking for him. It is a big galaxy, Garak.”

“He—he only insisted on his title,” Bashir said flatly. “He didn’t mention anything else, except that he was _gul_ Dukat.”

Garak looked murderous. Sisko tried not to think through when that assertion of authority would have become necessary in Dukat’s mind.

“Thank you, Dr. Bashir, for your information and cooperation.”

“You can’t do anything with it.”

Odo tilted his head. “Oh? Then why bring it to me?”

Bashir gestured to Sisko and Garak. “They wanted me to.”

“And they were right to do so. There was a crime committed on this station, and as head of security it is my job to investigate all crimes in pursuit of justice, a thing that does not stop being important depending on who is involved.”

Bashir chuckled hollowly.

“And what is amusing?”

“We were just talking about justice,” Bashir said. “It’s—interesting, to hear it come from you, too.”

“It is my job, Dr. Bashir, as I mentioned, and has been for some years. I will keep this confidential, but I will not ignore it. Will that suffice for you?”

A half-smile quirked Bashir’s lips. “Yes, Odo, that will suffice. Thank you—and thank you for keeping this, ah, quiet.”

Odo tipped his head. “Then I shall be going—though I do find a deep appreciation for this San Francisco of yours, the sand is not part of that.”

Sisko smiled. “I’ll walk you out, Constable,” he said.

“Commander,” Bashir started, “if you would stay a moment?”

Sisko looked at Bashir, surprised. He nodded to Odo, who headed back up the beach, calling for the door. Garak did not move.

“Commander, I…I’m sorry for being curt with you. I mean no disrespect.”

Sisko sighed, wondering how much of his own entirely unjustified annoyance had shown on his face. “Doctor, you are under a great deal of stress and have experienced very, _very_ recent trauma. I appreciate your apology, but give yourself some space in this. Take at least the rest of this week off—and absolutely schedule at least one appointment with Counselor Telnorri before returning to duty. _That_ is an order.”

Bashir’s jaw tightened. “Yes, sir.”

Sisko watched him a moment more before turning and nodding to Garak and following Odo up the beach.

Julian pulled his sweater tighter; in the back of Garak’s mind, the tailor despaired at such treatment of the fabric. He brushed away the thought. “Julian, shall we sit a moment?”

Julian looked at him, surprised. Garak waited until Julian folded his lanky limbs and sat on the sand before doing so himself.

“How long has it been since you last had a panic attack?” Garak asked bluntly.

Julian inhaled sharply and pulled his knees close to his chest. Garak waited.

“It’s been a long time,” Julian finally said to the sea. “I—I had a lot of them after I found out about the, the enhancements. I didn’t know how to live in my own body anymore, and I was so scared that everything was broadcasting that I was different.”

“Did they stop here at the Academy?”

Julian smiled at the waves curling ever forward. “They lessened. My medical classes taught me how to recognize them, how to counteract them. I…I don’t know why I couldn’t—”

“Julian,” Garak interrupted, “there is absolutely no purpose in analyzing what just happened to find fault in your own actions.”

“But if you hadn’t been there—”

“I _was_ there.”

“And now I have to explain to Jadzia…oh, what will I say?” Julian turned to finally look at Garak, the horror clear on his windswept face.

Garak foundered for a moment. “Why do you have to say anything?”

Julian scoffed. “She knows something’s wrong, Garak, and you know Jadzia doesn’t stop when she knows something's wrong.”

“Even if you ask her to stop?”

A shadow streaked through Julian’s eyes and he closed them tightly. “It doesn’t seem to matter if I ask people to stop,” he said, quietly.

Garak wanted to hit everything, wanted to dismember Dukat while he was still living. He breathed deeply, remembering Julian’s earlier words about his own anger, and wrapped his hands together until the grey went white.

“I—I’m sorry, that wasn’t fair,” said Julian, opening his eyes and seeing Garak’s tension.

“No,” agreed Garak, “but neither was it entirely wrong. Jadzia is your friend, Julian; she is not Dukat. If you tell her to wait while you decide what to tell her—if anything at all—then she will wait. Dax seems to be quite honorable in any iteration, and Jadzia herself no less so.”

Julian nodded, turning back toward the sea. Garak did the same, still breathing through the fury that burned in every ridge. The _shush, shush, shush_ of the waves breathed back.

“Everything is too fresh,” Julian said after a while. “I don’t know—with my brain, I don’t know if it will fade. If I will ever stop hearing…it…in every phrase, seeing it in every interaction. What if—what if it never does? I can’t live like that.”

Fear scurried across the tops of the fury in Garak’s veins. He steadied himself, fighting the temptation to turn and hold Julian close, so close that nothing could touch him in Garak’s embrace. “‘Never’ is quite a long time,” he said instead. “You asked me earlier to help you heal. Is that still what you want?”

Julian shook his head. “Yes. Maybe. I don’t know. I—I’m so _tired_ , Elim. And I have no idea if I’ll be able to sleep—it’s all right there, right in the space where I stop thinking about anything else. What if I keep having panic attacks like that? Gods, Jadzia just asked me what was wrong and I lost my fool mind.”

Garak felt miserably out of his depth. He knew how to take people apart, not put them back together. But Julian’s earlier statement of trust hung heavily in his memory. Fool mind indeed to say he trusted Garak, and Garak alone.

“It was just last night,” he ventured. “Even for those of us with, ah, untampered minds, last night is quite recent.”

“So I should get over it and let time work?”

“Not at all. But you might benefit from not attempting to live all of the coming days right now.”

“How do I make it stop?”

Garak sighed. “You don’t.” Old, well-named demons of his own winked in the back of his mind. He was glad, suddenly, of the sky, clouded and holographic though it was. “But you learned to live with Adigeon Prime, didn’t you?”

Julian nodded.

“Then who knows what you’re capable of doing? Even in the last day, you have survived the commander, Odo, Jadzia, the Promenade, and Quark’s. My dear doctor, do you have any idea how incredible that is?”

Julian turned again to Garak and Garak let him search his face for honesty. The doubt in Julian’s eyes was overwhelming.

“I, for one, am beyond proud of you,” said Garak, holding Julian’s gaze. “For this day, you are living, and you are living well.”

Julian broke the connection and pulled absently on a sleeve. “I guess that will have to be enough,” he replied. “For now.”

Garak let the addition be. “Shall we return to my quarters?” he said.

Julian nodded. Garak stood first and reached a hand down to help Julian up; Julian ignored it, and as he walked back toward the door Garak tried desperately to believe that he was okay with the continued need for distance in this healing process.

He failed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Episode nods to s2eps 2,10,15, and 21.
> 
> I love DS9 to pieces (obviously), but it kills me that shows from the 90s suffer from the mindset that healing has no place in an entertainment venue. Therefore, because it's a TV show, the characters go through Hell three times a day and bounce back within a couple of episodes at most (shout-out to "It's Only a Paper Moon," though, because damn that episode is amazing). Before Ezri shows up in season 7, there are only a couple of vague references to a counselor named Telnorri in connection to the amount of trauma O'Brien suffers. We're never even given his species.
> 
> So I'm making Telnorri a thing. I'm cribbing a bit from having met him in other fanfics like "The Manipulation of Julian Bashir" although other tales have gone other directions--I highly recommend zaan's "The Incarceration of Elim Garak," which has a holographic counseling program. But we'll meet Telnorri soon and I will feel much better knowing that at least somebody on that damn station is getting therapy.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which this novel's title appears as we continue our examination of how healing is just a hard, hard thing all around.

“Commander?”

Sisko squeezed the baseball tightly and breathed out before turning away from the viewport and the endless stars.

“Major,” he said, his tone level. “What do you need?”

Kira looked at him strangely. “Sir, I could ask you the same thing.”

“Oh?”

“You went off to have a meeting with Odo and stormed back in here looking like Dukat had declared he was coming back to the station with an entire Cardassian troop. You haven’t sat down since; is something the matter with station security I should know about?”

Sisko closed his eyes briefly and clenched the baseball again. For Kira to use that particular illustration cut deeply; for her to use it here in this office, next to this desk that had been Dukat’s that Sisko could not sit at just yet with the waves of San Francisco and the deadened resignation of Bashir still echoing in his mind, poured salt in the wound.

“Commander?”

“The station is not currently in any danger, Major.”

“Are you all right, sir?”

Sisko scoffed. “There are some questions I cannot suitably answer. But I recognize and appreciate the concern.”

Confusion settled into the ridges on Kira’s nose. “Can I help, at all?”

“Not as yet,” Sisko said. “But perhaps it would be best if I took a moment to go—clear my head. You have Ops, Major.”

Kira inclined her head in acknowledgement, still watching him curiously. Sisko clutched the ball once more before setting it down in its holder and walking out of the office.

It would not do to throw it through the viewport, after all. Destroying Dukat’s station would only matter if this were, indeed, Dukat’s station—and despite Kira’s joke, Sisko knew that Deep Space Nine was one thing he would not let Dukat take for his own.

***

“Whaddya mean, ‘he’s detained’? When did you see him?”

Quark sighed over the bar at the irritated chief of operations. “He was here this afternoon with Sisko, Garak, and Odo, and I didn’t ask why and I don’t want to know.”

O’Brien searched through his fighter pilot outfit for his comm badge. “O’Brien to Bashir,” he said. There was an extended pause. “O’Brien to Bashir.”

“Mr. O’Brien,” came Garak’s voice.

“Garak?!” the chief exclaimed. “What are you doing with Bashir’s badge?”

“Dr. Bashir is currently asleep and is feeling—unwell. May I be of assistance?”

“What are you doing with his badge?”

“I have not stolen it or harmed him, if that’s what you’re implying.”

O’Brien huffed. “I’m not ‘implying’ anything; you have a Starfleet officer’s badge and you are not that Starfleet officer. I want to know why.”

“Because he entrusted it to me so he can rest,” came the clipped reply.

“Entrusted it to—that’s against every regulation I know!” said O’Brien.

“Then learn others.” Garak’s voice was terse. “Do you need assistance?”

“He was supposed to meet me at the holosuite.”

“He will not be able to do that.”

“What do you know? That’s it, I’m coming to get him. Computer, where—”

“ _Mr. O’Brien_.”

Even Quark stopped pretending to clean his glass at that tone. The comm receiver lessened it somewhat, but the steel in Garak’s tone was still unyielding and cold. There was no trace of the dissimulating tailor or his games in that voice, and O’Brien knew it as well as Quark.

“I will inform Dr. Bashir when he awakes that you have asked after his well-being. I am quite sure he will be sorry to have missed your appointment, but he cannot come this evening. Trust me when I say that he is feeling unwell and he needs to rest.”

“Trust you?” said O’Brien disbelievingly. The comm line was silent, almost waiting. O’Brien looked at Quark, who shrugged. O’Brien sighed. “Okay,” he said. “But I’ll check in again tomorrow.”

“I will let him know. Thank you. Garak out,” replied Garak’s disembodied voice, and Quark could almost see the head tilt of acknowledgment at O’Brien’s acceptance of Garak’s relationship to the doctor.

“He better let him know,” O’Brien muttered at the bar. He looked up at Quark. “Well, while I’m here—it’s not as much fun without Julian, but at least there’s beer. A pint?”

Quark turned to get the drink, but O’Brien snagged his sleeve. “And don’t tell Julian I was worried about him, or said it’s not fun without him. Right?”

Quark rolled his eyes. “Right,” he agreed sarcastically. _Hew-mons_.

***

Garak rubbed the comm badge in his hand and sighed. If telling Jadzia worried Julian, Garak couldn’t even imagine how difficult he would find telling O’Brien. It was fortunate such a thing hadn’t yet occurred to the doctor.

Almost immediately after their return to Garak’s quarters—a fortunately less eventful trip than the leaving—Garak had told Julian to take the bed while he stayed out in the living room. Julian had apologized for “kicking him out” of his own bedroom, but he had not objected. Julian had also replicated a sleeping hypo for himself; Garak had carefully filed away the medical override he overheard, assuming it would be useful at some point. Caring for Julian was no reason to be unaware of opportunities.

A sharp shout from the bedroom startled Garak, who put down the comm badge and went to check on Julian. It was obvious that he was in the grip of a nightmare; his body was beginning to thrash about on the bed and the shouts were getting louder and more distinct. Garak went to wake him—and realized that startling Julian out of this particular nightmare to the face of a Cardassian would do infinitely more harm than good. He cursed to himself and held back. “Julian,” he called instead.

“NO,” Julian yelled, “no, I don’t—I don’t _want you_.”

Garak curled his fists, stepping forward and back again. “ _Julian_ ,” he said. “Julian, _wake up_.”

Julian’s head twisted, his legs kicking at the twisted blanket. “Get—get _off_.”

“JULIAN.” The helplessness rolled over Garak like the waves in San Francisco, merciless and unyielding. He could not stop it, this memory, just like he had not stopped Dukat from this in the first place, just like he could not stop Julian’s panic attack, just like, just like. The enormity of his own failure at being able to protect the one creature on this gods-forsaken station who mattered to him crushed him; the reality of it contorted Julian’s body and paralyzed his own.

Julian yelled louder, louder, and finally he started awake with a shout. His chest heaved, shirt sweat-slicked against him. “Garak?” he said into the semi-darkness.

“Julian,” came Garak’s strangled voice.

“I was—that was…” Julian trailed off and rubbed the heels of his hands into his eyes. “I guess I was shouting.”

Garak nodded.

“It’s an old trick of mine, to shout myself awake in a nightmare. I guess it works for flashbacks, too.” He untangled himself from the blanket and swung his legs over the side of the bed. “Did I wake you?”

“Hardly,” said Garak. The tension in his own body felt tight enough to snap.

“I guess you’re getting used to lurking in the room while I sleep,” said Julian with a half-laugh.

“I do not ‘lurk,’” replied Garak stiffly.

“Garak?” said Julian, standing. He grimaced as his shirt unstuck itself. “What’s wrong?”

“What’s—oh, Doctor, I thought we were moving beyond stupid questions.”

“Hang on,” said Julian, running a hand through his hair. “I’m sorry if I woke you, but don’t insult me when I’m still not completely in reality.”

“Then kindly wait until you’re in reality to ask questions about it.”

“What the hell, Garak?” Julian walked closer, so close and Garak trembled with the nearness, with the desire to hold him even closer, to protect that idiotically vulnerable human body whose angles were outlined by the shirt still partly clinging to it. He wanted to trace every plane of this body he knew, erase the other’s fingerprints on it.

“I cannot touch you,” he said, realizing a split second too late that he’d said it out loud.

“What?”

“I wanted to wake you,” Garak explained, not meeting Julian’s eyes. “But I knew that waking to a Cardassian wouldn’t be—pleasant, and I didn’t know if you would recognize me, and I couldn’t wake you otherwise, and I was so incredibly _helpless, again_.”

Julian sighed. “Maybe it’s not a great idea for me to stay here, Garak. I’ll—look, I’ll take a shower and go back to my quarters.”

“No,” said Garak, and he didn’t care that he had spent all day trying not to override Julian’s desires because he wasn’t sure whether he was saying no for Julian or for himself. “No, you should stay here.”

“‘Should’?” said Julian.

“You said it yourself, you weren’t ready to go back to that space yet.”

“But I’m clearly not doing you any favors by being here.”

“This isn’t about favors.”

“And this isn’t really about you, but here we are.”

Garak closed his eyes against the sting of the statement. It being true didn’t make it hurt less at all.

“I’m sorry, Garak. I know—I am so, so grateful for you, to you for today, for all that you’re doing to help me figure this out. And I know that has to be beyond difficult. But this—this trauma, this fucking _nightmare that is real_ , this happened bloody _yesterday_ and I don’t have any smoothness for it yet. I can’t—I am barely managing myself, obviously.” He gestured to his shirt, to the bed. “I can’t yet think about you, and I know that’s selfish but it’s real and I don’t want to lie to you about that. So if that’s too much—and I’d totally understand if it were—then I will go back to my quarters and figure something out.”

Garak shook his head. “You can’t go back. Not yet.”

“Can’t? Are you holding me here?”

Garak growled. “You are free to go wherever, Julian, and you know that.” He waited for Julian to nod acknowledgement. “But you’re right, this is beyond difficult. I cannot help wanting to protect you, and I cannot help being angry that I cannot, and I cannot help the desire to touch you and the frustration that I cannot because I lo—because I value you and the relationship we have been building.”

Julian’s eyes widened. He was nowhere near fool enough not to have caught what Garak almost said; mercifully, he did not press the point, and Garak added his chastisement for almost letting that declaration slip to the pile of things against himself.

“It is not ‘too much’ in the sense that I would prefer you ‘figure something out’ alone,” Garak continued. “But it is too much right now in the sense that I believe I need to go clear my head. It has been a trying day for us both. Will you be alright if I leave you here for a while?”

Julian half-smiled. “As alright as I can be, I suppose.”

Garak nodded. “Then I will return shortly, and I advise you to work on the dosage to counteract the nightmares.”

“Yes,” Julian agreed, “I think that would be wise. But first, a shower.” He pulled up his shirt as he passed Garak on his way to the bathroom, but his arm caught in it and he stumbled. Unthinkingly, Garak caught him, his cold hands scratching against the fevered flesh. Julian yelped and twisted away, the shirt still caught around his head. He yanked it the rest of the way off, breathing heavily as Garak backed up several paces, hands held in front of him.

“I’m sorry,” Julian said.

“It was my fault,” Garak responded.

“No, it’s—it’s not about fault. Elim, that’s—that’s what I need you to understand. You said you can’t touch me, and right now you’re right, and I know that’s killing you, and I appreciate your being honest about that so I want to explain that to you.”

“You don’t need—”

“No, I know. But I _want_ you to understand, or at least know that it’s not because I’m—because I’m disgusted by you, or that I hate you. I don’t; please, Elim hear that. I do not hate you because you are also Cardassian. Do you believe me on that?” Now it was Julian who waited for Garak’s nod of acknowledgment. “It’s just that you are, in fact, also Cardassian, and my brain has a bunch of wrong wire crossings right now. So it’s not really that you _can’t_ touch me; it’s just that you have to do so very carefully and deliberately when I can see what’s going on and get the right wire crossings about it.” He stepped closer to Garak and held out one hand, palm up.

It was a familiar gesture Garak had taught him, a greeting between Cardassians that spoke of closeness. Garak searched Julian’s eyes for clarity; Julian looked right back at him, palm steady. At last, Garak reached his own hand out, settling his palm against Julian’s with the barest hint of contact. Julian surprised him by entwining his fingers with Garak’s, an incredibly intimate move. Julian held their hands tightly together.

“I need you to be patient with me,” he said, stepping slightly closer. “When you touch me unexpectedly right now, I have the wrong idea of who it is; you’re the only other Cardassian I’ve, well, _known_ like—that.” Julian’s voice faltered for a moment; unthinkingly, Garak squeezed the hand in his. Julian smiled. “So that will come back—I hope—but it’s not the sense memory that’s most powerful right now. It’s not that you can’t ever touch me; I just need you to be careful about how you do so until I remember it’s you.”

Garak nodded and rubbed his thumb over the back of Julian’s hand.

“Okay, then,” said Julian. They stood, hands interlocked, for a minute more. Garak drank in the touch, limited though it was, swallowing down the deep thirst to pull Julian close, to hold him tightly against the world. Julian eventually pulled away and Garak turned to leave the room, one hand cradling the other as though to keep anything from marring that touch for which his whole body ached.

***

Garak leaned against the wall outside of his quarters, glad of the empty corridor, and took deep breaths until he stopped shaking. He no longer bothered to catalogue all the ways he was betraying his Order training or the avalanche of sentimentality he could hear Tain deriding in the back of his mind. The list was so long that piecing it out was no longer useful. He had no longer failed; he _was_ a failure, on every level.

But if he was going to be a failure, if he was going to drown in sentimentality, if he was going to betray every aspect of his training, then at least he could do so to useful ends. He headed off to Julian’s quarters.

After keying in the override code and stepping inside, Garak automatically tasted the air, breathing deeply through his _so’c_. He regretted it immediately; though the room looked normal again, the smell of Dukat lingered. Julian’s peculiar taste was underneath, but it was punctuated by the sweat of fear, an acidic overtone that made Garak want to rinse out his mouth. But why shouldn’t he taste it, these layers of his own failure? He breathed through his _so’c_ again, nearly choking on the Cardassian musk that was not his, that was stale and too fresh at the same time. All of Julian’s admonitions about whether or not this was his fault fell away and he walked into the bedroom.

The bed was stripped bare, the room almost clinical even by Starfleet’s habitual tidiness. He tasted the air again, drinking in the reality of Dukat’s crime. He knelt by the bed where he had found Julian not 26 hours ago. No, Julian could not come back here. Not yet. If Garak could find this much pain in being here and overlaying the remembered scene, what on Cardassia would it do to the augment with an eidetic memory?

What if Julian could never go back?

Garak shook his head. It would not do to get lost in speculation about this point, nor to acknowledge the pained knot in his chest that constricted hopefully at the thought of Julian staying permanently with him. That would not happen, and certainly should not be desired under these circumstances. He went back to the replicator in the living room and asked for new sheets. Remaking the bed felt somewhat foolish, but the bareness of the room gnawed at him. When done, he went into the bathroom. There were still faint smears of blood that Julian had not caught in his first run-through. Garak rolled up his sleeves, accepting the chill of the station’s air on his forearms and feeling it seep deeper into his bones, before returning to the replicator. Though this could be done with one of the many Federation tools—or even Cardassian—it felt good to take an actual towel and water to the blood, to scrub it away until his hands felt raw, until the room was clean. The vigor had warmed him, almost, and he did not think of the tears that ran down his ridges in this room where no one could see him. Even Tain’s voice was surprisingly quiet, drowned out by the impotent fury of knowing Julian slept in his bed wrapped in nightmares that might never go away.

Garak threw the towels in the recycler. He almost threw his shirt in alongside before realizing he would still have to walk back to his own quarters and was not going to do that topless. He washed his hands instead, scrubbing the rawness until brown rose to the surface of the grey skin. He stopped, knowing he did not want to be bleeding in the halls to his quarters. Checking the space as he headed back into the main room, Garak breathed deeply. The taste of dominance and fear was now cut through with the tang of antiseptic; it was still there, but less. It would do.

As he left Julian’s quarters, he gently picked up the small and well-scarred bear slouched on a shelf, hoping against hope that no one would see him walking through the corridors with it.

The fortune of guls held for him; he returned, unseen, and entered his own door code. Julian was not in the main room. Garak carefully went to his bedroom; Julian had gone back to sleep, curled into a tight ball that occasionally whimpered and twitched as Garak stood there, watching. Garak approached silently and slid Kukalaka into the crook of Julian’s arm. Almost immediately, Julian reformed himself around the bear and settled, clutching the toy like a lifeline.

Garak patted the head of the bear before taking himself and his weary heart to sleep on the couch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Somewhat obscure references to s2ep5 "Cardassians" and s1ep10 "Move Along Home."
> 
> Memory Alpha tells me that Cardassian blood is brown, not red, which is kind of cool. Thanks, Memory Alpha.
> 
> I forget where I picked up the hand thing and the intimacy of hand gestures in Cardassian relationships, but it's frequent here in the fic-verse. I also personally have a great deal of appreciation for hand contact as a gesture of intimacy, so it shows up in most of my stories.


	9. Chapter 9

Julian awoke without opening his eyes and breathed deeply, inhaling Garak’s scent and smiling lazily. The bed was warm and familiar and the memory of Garak’s rough skin sliding slickly under his fingertips widened his grin. Rolling his head forward on the pillow, Julian reached out with eyes still closed to pull Garak closer to him—and touched fur. Why would Kukalaka be here?

The feeling of Garak’s skin spun suddenly and morphed into Dukat’s skin; the memory sloughed through Julian like a tidal wave as Garak’s gentle fingers were overridden by Dukat’s dragging rough and slick on his sides, ridges scratching his thighs, hand wrapped around his throat, pushing—

With a mangled shout, Julian sat bolt upright in the bed, eyes wide open, panting. He threw off the sheets and bent until his head was almost level with his knees, breathing, breathing. He was in Garak’s room, but Garak was not. More importantly, Dukat was not. He was safe. It had been two days.

When his heart had slowed, Julian straightened and reached out again to the bear. Garak must have brought it in while he slept; Garak never quite understood Julian’s love for the toy, but he never denigrated it. It was one of the many small things Julian loved about the alien, one of the many ways in which his kindness peeked through the brokenness of the spy.

Hugging Kukalaka tightly to himself, Julian padded into the living room to thank Garak, but the space was empty. Julian picked up a padd left on the table: “I did not wish to wake you, but it was best I be at the shop today. The quarters are yours; should you need me, I am quite able to return. I will check in at lunchtime unless you prefer to have the day to yourself.” Julian sighed. Somehow, the idea that Garak could go back to work but he could not rankled, even though he completely understood Sisko’s reasoning and concern. He reached toward the comm panel to contact the counselor and set up an appointment—it had to be done before Sisko would clear him—but as his fingers touched the screen he _felt_ Dukat pulling on him, yanking him away from the wall. Dropping Kukalaka, he spun out of the grip—that wasn’t there. The phantom hands faded and Kukalaka looked sadly up at him from the floor.

Julian hit the wall in frustration. He couldn’t go to work like this, he understood that—who knew how many triggers he might find in something as simple as an examination, let alone anything with steeper consequences? He couldn’t endanger his patients like that.

But he couldn’t stay away from work, locked in his own head, remembering. Idleness was equally dangerous, in its own way. In idleness, he could think about Garak’s wording that “it was best” he return to work—it was best he not have to be burdened by Julian’s inability to function, Julian’s disregard for his needs. In idleness, he could wonder how long it would be before Jadzia realized something was truly off and how he was going to tell her.

In idleness, he could feel the tendrils of shame curl around him as strongly as the phantom hands of Dukat.

Julian shivered in the warmth of Garak’s quarters and picked up Kukalaka. He wanted to comm Garak, to bring him back and curl into his chest with his head resting on Garak’s _ChUla_ —but the thought derailed, replaced by another’s grey skin pressing into him. He shook his head, jerking his mind away from the memory, and wound himself around the worn bear. With a deep breath, he reached out and tapped the screen. “Bashir to Telnorri,” he said.

“Telnorri here,” came the disembodied voice, and Julian realized he had wanted very much for there to be some problem, some distance, some excuse for the counselor not to answer. Clearly, the universe continued not to be on his side.

“I, um,” he said, feeling stupid. “I’ve been told to report to you to set up an appointment.”

“Yes,” said Telnorri, and the gentleness in the single syllable made Julian want to punch a hole through the comm panel. “Commander Sisko told me to look for your call. When should I expect you in my office?”

The lack of wiggle room in the question was not lost on Julian. He sighed. “Not today,” he said, surprised at the weariness in his own voice.

“Tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow.”

“0900 would be agreeable for me.”

 _As if I care what’s agreeable for you_ , Julian thought. “Then let’s do that.”

“I shall see you then. Telnorri out.”

Julian slumped to the floor, still wrapped around Kukalaka. The first unmanageable hurdle was managed. Figuring out how he was going to go to Telnorri’s office and survive telling the story yet again without dissolving in another panic attack was tomorrow’s problem.

With that thought of resignation, Julian fell asleep just as he was.

***  


It was a long day.

It had only been some four hours since Garak opened his shop and started making apologies to customers who had expected him to be there the day before, but it felt like a day. Several. There was a kind of tired that he had forgotten.

He wished he had the implant back.

Sighing, Garak shifted the sleeve of the tunic for a Bolian trader and looked at the stitching. It was remarkable, really, how compartmentalized his mind could be, surprising even him; the rows of thread were neat and even despite his not being able to remember sewing them in the past half hour.

“Garak, can we talk?”

Garak looked up and sighed internally. Jadzia Dax stood uncertainly in the entryway, a strange thing to see on the brash young woman. “Would it make a difference if I said no?”

She looked startled. “Of course it would make a difference. That’s why I asked.”

Starfleet ethics. What a nuisance; what a lie.

“In that case, no, we cannot.” He waited, knowing it was not enough. To her credit, Jadzia turned to leave, one hand on the wall. Garak bent his head to his work, counting.

“Why can’t we talk?”

He had almost made it to ten, which impressed him. Perhaps it was the multiple lifetimes of patience she had going for her. “What could you possibly have to say to a plain and simple tailor, Lieutenant?”

“How do you know it’s not about business?”

“You would not have asked.”

She nodded, conceding. “That’s true.”

Garak set the work aside, resigned. “On what shall we discourse, Lieutenant?”

Jadzia came into the shop proper, purposefully coming up to the counter where Garak sat. “It’s about Julian.”

_Of course it is._

“What about him?”

“What about—Garak, he was _not_ okay yesterday and he hasn’t answered any of my comms since.”

“Why are you asking me about his lack of communication?”

“Because I asked the computer where he was and it wasn’t his quarters—it was yours.”

 _Ah_. Blast the Federation and its need to keep tabs on all people at all times.

“Would you mind explaining why he’s incommunicado in your quarters?”

“Really, Lieutenant, is that any of your business?” He tried his best seductive look, internally grimacing.

Dax leaned forward. Garak had to hand it to her; for a Trill woman she could be remarkably intimidating. He saw much of why Julian had chased her so faithfully. “It is indeed my business, Garak, if you’re holding him against his will.”

Garak laughed. “Oh, my dear lieutenant, is that what you think?”

Jadzia leaned back, looking a little confused. “Not really, but what else am I supposed to think?”

“You really have been listening too much to Julian’s fantasies about my colorful past if you think I’m going to lock up a Starfleet officer on a _Starfleet-run station_.”

“That used to be run by Cardassians, so you would know all the best ways to hide someone.”

“And so I would keep his comm badge on him and put him in my quarters? Hardly first-rate espionage.”

Jadzia sighed. “I know, but I saw you two together yesterday—”

“And were perturbed by what you saw?”

“Yes—no, not in that way. I mean; Garak, if Julian’s into you, I support that.”

“I appreciate it.”

“No, I’m serious; I just…he wasn’t okay, yesterday, and now he’s not talking to me, and you’re the last person I saw him with, and I want some answers, okay? He’s my friend, Garak.”

Garak softened, slightly. In a corner of his mind, he wondered whether Julian realized that his friends cared this much about him, to brave the lone Cardassian and accept even the possibility of a relationship between them if it made the doctor happy. “I know, Lieutenant.”

“Dax.”

“What?”

“Dax. If I’m going to barge into your shop and accuse you of kidnapping my friend, the least I can do is let you call me by name.”

 _Not Jadzia?_ Garak wondered. Not that he had any room to talk; there were many of them on this station who kept their given names close.

“Dax, then. I am aware of your friendship, and thus can reassure you I am not holding Julian against his will and have not harmed him.” He breathed through a slight voice catch; had he not harmed him, after all? The lie slid smoothly across the space between them.

“Then why isn’t he answering comms?”

“He will.”

“When?”

“Dax, you have to trust him.” Federation types, they trusted each other. “He is not angry with you, he is not hiding from you, and he is not terminally ill. But he—is indisposed, at the moment, and will reconnect with you.”

Jadzia watched him a moment, thoughtfully. “You’re asking me to trust _you_ , Garak, not him.”

Garak said nothing.

Jadzia blew out a sigh of exasperation. “If you hurt him, or are withholding any sort of treatment from him, I promise you, Garak, I have no trouble sidestepping Benjamin to make sure not even Cardassia recognizes what’s left of you.”

Garak tilted his head in acknowledgement and she left. _What makes you think they’d recognize me now?_

***

Having heard nothing from Julian for the morning worried Garak. Well, it _should_ have worried Garak. Perhaps, were they anyone else, it _would_ have worried Garak—but the truth (that shapeshifter) was that it only confirmed Garak’s note of the morning. It was best that he go to work. It was best that he stay away from Julian. It was best, in fact, that he exit Julian’s life altogether. Being connected to Elim Garak was only a curse.

Still, Garak left the shop slightly earlier than his usual time and headed back to his quarters, worried. He was glad no one spoke to him, glad no one saw him glide through the halls, the silent Cardassian-shaped space on this station. It was best.

He tapped his code into the door and nearly tripped over the body lying just inside. Panic and rage reared like gettles within him. He bent to the body; it was Julian, sure enough, but he was breathing—deeply, almost like he was…

Sleeping. Julian was sleeping. On the threshold of Garak’s door.

Garak took a moment to curse everything he knew about humans and then everything he knew about this human, this beautiful fool who could fall asleep on his partner’s floor wrapped around a stuffed toy.

Sighing, Garak stood and carefully stepped over Julian, letting the door slide shut behind him. He checked the quarters, just in case. In the bedroom, the sheets were a tangled mess. It did not take his deductive skills to read the nightmares into the knots. He softened—fractionally—toward Julian falling asleep on the floor. Garak set about righting the bed, smoothing the Federation-issue sheets and straightening the blankets that were never warm enough for him. Julian kept encouraging him to make his own bed linens and he never had; he brushed out several nonexistent wrinkles and remembered.

_“Just think,” said Julian with a smirk, “how soft they could be.”_

_Garak rolled his eyes. “What need have I of softness?”_

_“Who said anything about_ you?” _Julian laughed and wrapped an arm around Garak’s hip, drawing him closer, sliding one thigh in between Garak’s scaled knees, stopping short of anything arousing. “I have plenty of need of softness.”_

_Garak narrowed his eyes and squeezed his knees, dragging a hand over Julian’s thigh to feel the scrape of his scales against that hair-covered flesh. “Yet you bed a rather rough species.”_

_Julian’s smile grew sultry. “Rough in all sorts of ways, I should hope.” His mouth was suddenly against Garak’s, fierce and warm, before it was sliding down Garak’s ridges and_ there _, biting the_ kinat’hU _hard—he was learning, and Garak growled in response. He rolled on top of Julian, tonguing under the jawline, grazing his teeth over the artery pulsing faster, faster. Julian let his head be pushed back. “Yes, Elim,” he half-whispered, and Garak’s own pulse quickened at the sound of his name in that mouth._

“Elim?”

Startled, Garak snapped back to the present. Julian was standing in the doorway, hair sticking up in all directions, Kukulaka peeking out under his crossed arms. Garak willed his breathing to slow; it was alarming to have been caught daydreaming, off-guard. The ever-present snigger of Tain trickled through the back of his mind.

“Doctor,” Garak said, tilting his head.

Julian sighed. “When did you come back?”

“Just now,” Garak said. “I didn’t want to wake you.”

“Right,” Julian said. He looked at the bed on which Garak was now sitting. “Thanks for fixing that. I—I know you like to keep things tidy.”

The half-finished memory of bronze hands wrinkling pillowcases in fistfuls while grey and tan bodies slid across the unkempt sheets rolled like a wave through Garak. “I do generally prefer it.”

Julian looked embarrassed. “I’m sorry, I—”

“Julian,” Garak interrupted, softly. “They are just sheets.”

Julian hung his head. Hugging the bear tighter, he crossed to the bed and sat next to Garak, centimeters apart, close enough that his natural body heat rolled off him, far enough that nothing but that heat touched. “I set up an appointment with Telnorri,” he said, his gaze on the floor.

Garak straightened slightly. “When?”

“Tomorrow. Morning.”

Garak nodded at no one and they sat in the silence a moment.

“Would—would you walk with me to his office?”

Garak turned, surprised. “If you wish that.”

Julian looked at him at last, eyes searching. “I do,” he said. Slowly, hesitantly, Julian reached out and slid his hand into Garak’s. “I need your strength.”

Garak felt as though the hand weighed a kiloton as he wrapped his grey fingers around it.

_I have none to give._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Memory Beta tells me that gettles are a pack-hunting Cardassian animal, which I imagine would be a good analogue to the various animals we talk about having in our stomachs or chests when nervous or afraid (https://memory-beta.fandom.com/wiki/Gettle).
> 
> Also, for those of you who are on board with Garashir sexy times, I promise there will eventually be more than this nod. That's almost ten chapters away, though. Patience will be rewarded.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Telnorri makes a (brief) appearance. In writing this, it was odd to realize that he never shows up on the show and fanfiction doesn't seem to have a consensus about who/what he is. So for some reason I've made him an Andorian, which is weird because Andorians are actually pretty militaristic without a whole lot of sympathy, but that's my headcanon and that's what it shall stay. Maybe one day I'll write the story about how Telnorri got himself ousted from his culture and wound up a counselor on DS9, since it seems I'm going to be writing fanfiction forever at this rate and I ain't even mad about it.

“Benjamin.”

Sisko sighed; nothing good ever came from a sentence that began in that tone of voice. “Good morning, old man,” he said anyway.

“What is going on with Julian?”

Sisko closed his eyes. “Dax, you know you can’t ask me that.”

“And yet I am. Benjamin, he positively _quailed_ when we met the other day on the promenade.”

“So why are you asking me? Surely you can talk to him about his own reactions.”

“That’s just it.” Jadzia flopped into a chair opposite Sisko. “I’ve tried to talk to him; I’ve commed him, I’ve gone by his quarters. I even went to talk to Garak about it.”

“Garak?”

“The computer said Julian was holed up in his quarters, so I went to talk to him about it.”

“Amicably, I hope.”

Jadzia ducked her head. “I’m concerned, Benjamin. Something is very wrong, and short of barging into Garak’s quarters and demanding Julian talk to me, I don’t know what to do.”

Sisko could only imagine how ill-advised anyone barging in on Bashir right now would be, even a well-intentioned friend. “I’m glad your better selves are holding you back from charging into the situation,” he said gently.

“Benjamin,” Jadzia said, a pleading edge in her voice. “What little Garak told me didn’t make me feel any better about Julian. What is _wrong_?”

Sisko stood and turned to the viewport, hurling silent invectives at the stars. Somewhere among them, Dukat hid, uncaring of the wreckage he had left here. The vastness of the galaxy suddenly seemed obscene, unjust.

“I can’t tell you, old man, you know I can’t,” he said, turning back to Jadzia. “I can reassure you that it’s nothing fatal, but it is…delicate. Julian has to come to you. Please, Jadzia, don’t push him on this.”

“Garak hasn’t done anything?”

“Gar—what on earth makes you think that?”

“They might be involved. And Garak isn’t exactly the most trustworthy person on the station.”

Sisko laughed in surprise. “Usually you’re the one giving other species the benefit of the doubt, Dax. What has Garak done to you?”

“Nothing,” Jadzia answered, blushing slightly. “I just—some of the things Kira has been telling me…”

“Remember that Garak was exiled here for some reason,” Sisko said. “He may not be trustworthy, but neither is he welcome to Cardassia. There’s something in that.” Just what, even he wasn’t sure.

“So it’s not Garak?”

Remembering the open concern on the Cardassian’s face, Sisko half-smiled. “It’s not Garak. Garak is actually—is quite good for Bashir, I think.” The grey hand hovered over purple bruises in Sisko’s mind and the smile dropped.

“Alright,” said Jadzia dubiously. “I trust you.”

“Trust Bashir,” said Sisko, a furious sorrow roiling under his level tone.

Dax nodded, rose, and left, and Sisko turned again to the distant stars.

***

“Commander,” said Telnorri quietly, and Sisko couldn’t quite tell whether it was an address or a question. He never could, with Telnorri. He preferred to stay far away from the Andorian and find his solace in cooking or a game with Jake but he respected the role the counselor played. Deep space did a lot of things to the mind; so did the daily experience of living.

“Counselor,” Sisko replied, gesturing the man to a seat. He kept his desk between them, telling himself it was for efficiency rather than protection. “Did Dr. Bashir keep his appointment?”

“He did.”

“And?”

“Commander, you know perfectly well that I will tell you nothing about the session.”

“Of course, of course. I just want to know that it went well.”

“It went.”

Sisko sighed. Telnorri was almost Garak-like in his opaqueness when he wanted to be.

“You are worried about him.” The observation came with a sense of certainty that made Sisko’s hackles rise.

“He’s my officer.”

“He’s your friend.”

Sisko stared. Was he? He certainly never thought of Bashir that way, not consciously; he understood his officers’ annoyance at the young doctor’s brash eagerness and did not find himself seeking out opportunities to spend time with him. Bashir was no Dax, that was for sure. But he couldn’t deny the sense of protective rage that welled up in his chest—maybe that was more about the fact that it had been Dukat, that reptilian coward. Maybe it was indeed that the victim was Bashir.

He remembered who had asked the question and snapped back in a hurry. “He’s my officer,” Sisko said more firmly, “and I’m glad that he followed my order to see you. I trust that you will continue whatever treatment he needs.”

Telnorri’s antennae twitched in amusement. “I will be his counselor as long as he requires,” he said.

“Good,” grunted Sisko. Telnorri inclined his head and left the office as Sisko leaned back and stewed over just how much the man had been able to prod from him in only a few minutes. Sisko physically shook himself and turned back to his screen.

***

The Julian that exited Telnorri’s office was not the Julian who had entered it. Garak had delayed opening his shop to walk the doctor to his appointment, the silence between them deafening as he _watched_ Julian build walls around himself. A part of him laughed, that part that didn’t ache with the fury and fear of it, to see Bashir attempt to be anything other than the transparent being he was. The man could no more evade the truth of himself than Garak could offer it. Garak reminded himself that Julian did, in fact, carry some secrets quite well—but they were oddities, unusual blips in the otherwise open character of this beautifully trusting human.

Another thing Dukat had damaged, then.

Bashir had chosen to wear his uniform to the appointment and Garak had not tried to stop him. Julian hid within the teal and black like a suit of armor, pips firmly in place. His back was painfully straight, his eyes focused only forward, and if Garak alone saw the way the tension in his shoulders was so much that it held his arms awkwardly still, so be it. He had learned to read the man’s body a long time ago, even before he had gotten to trace his fingers over its bared lettering.

They had taken a rather roundabout way to the office, ensuring that Julian didn’t run into any well-meaning friends. He had greeted with ease the people who said hello—as chief medical officer, he had seen many of the people on the station at some point or other as they came through the infirmary—and they did not see the artificiality in his smile, the immediacy of his return to moving forward, only forward, when they walked on.

Garak saw it, and said nothing.

“Right,” said Julian when they were a few feet from Telnorri's door. He stopped abruptly. Garak waited.

“I’ll just…do this, then.” Julian looked at the door, at the floor, at the door again until Garak wanted to grab him by the shoulders and force the man to look at _him_ , to see that he was not doing this alone--but then he should never had to had to do this, anyway. Garak remained still, silent. They stood together a moment, awkward.

“It should take an hour,” Julian said, still looking at the floor, and Garak heard something like an invitation.

“Shall I come back to meet you then?” he asked.

“If you—I mean, if that’s alright with your schedule,” Julian replied, looking him in the eye and oh, that hazel stare never failed to hold Garak as tightly as a physical embrace. The snide snort of Tain in his mind be damned, he would burn the whole station down rather than fail the open question in those eyes.

“I’ll be here in an hour,” Garak said softly, and Julian took a deep breath, squared his shoulders, and went through the door.

Whatever Garak had done for the hour had been unmemorable, and here Garak stood once more. The Julian that left the office was not the Julian who had entered; the tension was gone, the straight posture erased by a weariness that made Garak tired to see. The doctor looked as though he had aged a year in the hour, sorrow etched into every line under the teal-and-black uniform that now looked less like armor than a container to keep this Dr. Bashir from collapsing to the floor.

“Julian,” Garak said softly.

Julian gave a half-hearted smile. “I survived it,” he said.

Garak’s lips twitched. “I never doubted it.”

The hazel eyes seemed flat, bleached, exhausted. “Garak—Elim, that…that took…a lot. I don’t…I don’t know if I can make it back to your quarters alone. It is okay that I go back to your quarters, right?” The uncertainty lent a flash of energy, fleeting and sharp.

“Of course,” Garak said. “And I shall walk with you, if you’ll have me as a companion.”

“I think…I think I need more than just a companion. May I lean on you? It’s a bit old-fashioned, being escorted around on someone’s arm, but I am…quite tired.”

Garak quieted the swirl of his reactions, retreating into his pleasant host persona, shopkeeper to the rescue. “By all means,” he said, holding out his arm. Julian entwined both of his around it and Garak felt the heat of his palms though his own shirt sleeves, felt the weight of Julian’s body leaning into his shoulder. It was not enough, and absurdly Garak wanted to gather Julian into his arms like the terrible romance stories Julian had told him about from years before. He mentally rolled his eyes at himself and took the first step forward, measuring how much Julian could handle. It was not much, and Garak was glad he had not put a return hour on his shop door when he’d left. This would take some time.

But Julian’s long and deft fingers were wrapped around his arm just so, and the warmth of his chest burned through Garak’s sleeves, and in the lift Julian even laid his head on Garak’s shoulder for a brief, bright moment, and Garak did not mind the time at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We are currently in the thick of everything shutting down for COVID-19 quarantine, so first let me thank you for continuing to read this adventure and second let me say how much I appreciate you, Reader, and this online community that keeps me connected in this time of apart-ness. You're lovely and wonderful and I hope you are safe. (Wash your hands.)


	11. Chapter 11

Julian faithfully went to Telnorri’s office every day for the next week, escorted by Garak to and from, the difference in posture between the two lessening slightly with the rising number of visits. Julian did not tell Garak of the time spent with the counselor, and Garak did not ask. Neither did he break into the records he knew Telnorri would have to be keeping; for once, knowing another’s secrets held no glamor for him. Julian woke less often in the bed where Garak did not sleep, but the cries still drifted into the living room to settle on the sofa and curl around his neck ridges. There was space, all the space that shone outside the station’s windows in a miniature galaxy between them, and neither of them knew what to call it.

“Telnorri thinks I should go back to my quarters,” Julian said after a week as they shared a mostly quiet dinner. He did not look up from his soup.

Neither did Garak, for a moment. He had known this was coming, and welcomed it in a perverse sort of way—they could quit this charade of intimacy if Julian had his own space.

“And do you agree?” Garak said after a pause.

Julian tapped his spoon gently on the side of the bowl, the slight clinking sound seeming too loud. “I’m not thrilled about it, but I see his point. I need to ‘reclaim the space,’ he says.”

“When would you be going back?”

“I know it’s been a lot, having me stay so long with you. I can’t ever repay you for your generosity, Garak.”

Garak stared at the man. Generosity? To give safety to the one person on this station who had so dutifully cared for him in these very quarters? It was utter selfishness that kept him close, that wanted Julian to stay with him always, to be under Garak’s protection. But then, protection was something he couldn’t do—so Garak let the remark stand, let Bashir continue, let the wedge sink deeper between them.

“I’m thinking tomorrow night, if you don’t mind having me here a while longer yet.” Bashir held Garak’s gaze, obviously steeling himself not to look away while he waited for an answer.

Garak no longer felt his heart break; the shards hadn’t had enough chance to come together to be broken again. He schooled his face to the blandness of their first few lunches, of the uncertain cautiousness that came before the love neither of them had admitted, and inclined his head. “Whatever you need, Doctor.”

Bashir smiled a half smile and the two continued dinner in silence, the galaxy between them cold and filled with too many unsaid things burning like stars.

***

“Benjamin, it’s been a week. Even the chief is worried. Hell, even _Kira_ is worried, and she doesn’t really _like_ Julian. In fact, about the only people who aren’t worried are you and Odo. Does Odo know what’s going on?”

Sisko leaned back from the chessboard and laced his fingers together behind his head. To be honest, he was impressed she—and the rest of the senior officers—had lasted this long. “What do you want from me, Dax?”

“I want an answer.”

“I can’t give you one.”

“Can’t? Or won’t?”

Sisko leaned forward, mirroring Jadzia angled over the forgotten chess game. “Can’t.”

Jadzia searched his eyes. “What happened?” she said softly.

Sisko closed his eyes. “I can’t, old man. It is not my story to tell, and if Bashir wants to stay hidden for a week then he gets to stay hidden for a week.”

“But he’s not hidden—he’s holed up with Garak. Do you know how many rumors are running around the station?”

“How many of them did Quark start?”

Jadzia’s mouth twitched briefly. “Probably a lot. But he’s not the only one, and Garak continuing to say that Julian is fine is less and less convincing. Honestly, _you_ telling me he’s fine is less and less convincing.”

“I never said he was fine.” The words were out of his mouth before he thought about it and Sisko internally winced.

“There!” said Jadzia, pouncing on the statement. “He’s _not_ fine! Benjamin, _what_ is going on?”

“Damn it, Dax!” Sisko said curtly. “Stop asking! I cannot tell you, I will not tell you, and I will not have you badger my chief medical officer into telling you! His life is not in danger, he is not suffering anything terminal, and he will be returning to work in a few days. Let it be!”

The two of them stared at each other across the board, stony faces glaring.

“This isn’t right, Benjamin,” said Dax at last.

“Oh,” said Sisko, “I know. But you _have_ to let him get there on his own.”

“Where is ‘there’?”

Sisko sighed and moved a piece on the chessboard. “A place of peace, Dax. A place of peace.”

***

It was amazing to Garak how much of Julian’s belongings had accumulated in his quarters over the course of a week. He had half a mind to ask Chief O’Brien to transport the mess back and save them the trouble of carrying it but remembered O’Brien still didn’t know why the mess was in Garak’s quarters in the first place. He had fielded enough questions to last him a lifetime from Jadzia Dax and O’Brien—even, in the last day, from Odo stopping by the shop, miserably failing at an attempted casual inquiry. After the third time of reporting the questions to Julian, Garak had simply stopped telling him: the pain in his eyes, the tremor that ran through his body, the catch of his breath told Garak more than any verbal answer that his friends would have to wait.

But oh, how tired he was of the looks they gave him, of the suspicion, the uncertainty. Being the only Cardassian on a Bajoran station made him used to being eyed with mistrust, if not outright hatred, but this was more—this was the Federation who had become human, who had become _Julian’s friends_ , who had at least grudgingly accepted him.

Who now wondered what he was doing to their officer, their comrade. Who saw, more and more every day, less of the curious tailor and more of the Cardassian spy.

Garak wished he didn’t mind so much, and wondered when he had grown so soft that he did.

“I think this is everything,” Julian said as he brought the last bag from the bedroom to land with a soft _thump_ on the pile by Garak’s door. He grinned sheepishly. “I didn’t realize how much you were bringing over this week.”

Garak leaned down to start picking up the collection of bags. “Yes, well, I think we can manage between the two of us.”

Julian hoisted a bag to his shoulder and turned to survey the living room. “I know it’s absurd,” he said without turning back to Garak, “but I feel as though I’m saying goodbye, in a way. Even though I’ll be back often enough.”

Garak stiffened, glad Julian wasn’t watching him as his face tightened in grief. He smoothed his grimace as Julian looked over his shoulder.

“I mean, I will be back, right? I didn’t overstay my welcome?” The look on Julian’s own face as he doubled back on his statement was full of hesitance and uncertainty.

“You are always welcome here,” Garak said, sidestepping the question.

“Thank you, Elim,” said Julian softly, and Garak wondered if he could ever understand this creature with such hope, such forgiveness, such open vulnerability.

“Shall we?” Garak offered, stifling the doubt.

Julian nodded and, after a last visual sweep of the quarters, headed out. Garak followed; he did not look back.

The journey to Julian’s quarters felt almost anticlimactic in its shortness. The pair had tried for some banter and quickly settled into anxious silence. At the door, Julian paused, his hand on the keypad, his breathing unsteady.

“I won’t lie, Garak, I’m not sure I can do this now I’m here,” he said matter-of-factly.

Garak shifted the bag on his shoulder, trying to gauge whether he should offer a chance to go back and do this another day. He remembered walking Julian back from his session with Telnorri that morning as he chattered about the counselor’s encouragement at this decision and decided against softness.

“I’m sure you could try sleeping here in the hallway, Doctor, but I wouldn’t recommend it.”

Julian glanced sideways at him, amusement and fear flickering in his eyes. “I don’t imagine that would be very kind to Kukalaka,” he replied. Garak tipped his head in agreement and Julian took a deep breath and punched in his code, quickly stepping inside as the door slid open.

Garak had kept cleaning each time he returned to the quarters on an errand from Julian, with the result that the place was not only spotless but almost sterile. Garak saw immediately that he had been overzealous, that this place was cold in its enforced purity. Before he could formulate an apology, however, Julian had unceremoniously dropped his bag on the couch and marched determinedly into the bedroom. Garak placed his bag with rather more care by a cabinet and followed, almost bumping into Julian standing at the foot of the bed, lanky arms wrapped tightly around his lean torso. Garak took a step to the side and stood silently, watching.

After a few moments, Julian reached out, one shaking hand connecting with the cover. His head jerked slightly and Garak flinched in response, his own hands abortively reaching to help, to hold. Julian walked around the bed, sliding his hands over it as he moved, pain and fear and anger chasing each other over his face. He knelt at the place where Garak had found him, palms flat on the floor Garak had meticulously cleared of bloodstains.

“This was you, wasn’t it?” he said after several moments of silence, startling Garak out of his own memory. “You cleaned everything up?”

Garak nodded.

Julian stood and came back around the bed until he was in front of Garak. Awkwardly, hesitantly, he grabbed Garak by the biceps. They stared at one another for a heartbeat, two, and then Julian pulled Garak into a fierce hug. “Thank you,” he whispered into Garak’s shoulder, “thank you.”

The total contact was shocking to Garak after a week of distance. The warmth alone flashed like fire through his body, making him acutely aware of how cold Julian’s quarters were compared to his own. Almost unbidden, his arms raised to encircle Julian’s slim waist and suddenly he was holding his lover pressed to his body, fighting his own desire to squeeze him so tightly that all of the pain would be crushed out of him and Julian, his Julian would remain, naïve, beautiful, whole.

The embrace ended, far too quickly for Garak’s taste, as Julian stepped back. Garak let him go.

“I told the infirmary I would work the afternoon tomorrow,” Julian said into the awkward silence between them. “So I should probably unpack and get some sleep.”

Garak turned to leave.

“Would you—would you want to stay?”

Suppressing the sigh that might have also been a growl, Garak faced Julian. He looked so young sometimes; Garak never forgot their age difference, but at moments of uncertainty like these it was so apparent it was painful. Would he want to stay? He wanted to scoop Julian up like the child he could be and encircle him, protect him from the universe, but he could not. Julian already knew evil, already knew pain, and Garak could not protect him from what had already happened. Garak knew all too well that what was past was irrevocable. And he knew that Julian was not asking him into his bed, even after that hug. He was not ready. Garak himself was not ready. The specter of Dukat still lay smirking between them, and Garak could not face a night on a couch in cold quarters that tasted of antiseptic and fury.

“I believe you mentioned that Telnorri said you should avoid using—what was it, a stick?”

“A crutch,” Julian said.

“A crutch, then,” said Garak smoothly. “Though I thank you for the thought. It is best I return to my own quarters.” He watched Julian fold into himself and couldn’t bear to simply leave. “If you need anything, I am but a comm line away.”

Julian half-smiled at that, though it faded quickly. “Thank you, Elim. I—I appreciate everything you’ve done for me.” Hesitantly, he held out his palm in the strange and familiar Cardassian gesture.

Garak’s fingers twitched. He schooled himself, swallowed everything, cursed the universe and all beings in it, and touched his palm to Julian’s with a smile. “Sleep well,” he said, pulling away after the slightest of touches, telling himself that the platitude could make up for the fear in the green flecks of Julian’s eyes as he left the antiseptic-tasting quarters that were far too cold.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> GARAK YOU SHOULD HAVE STAYED. I know you have your own stuff to work out and deal with and I know you are not okay either but ugh, you break my heart on the regular.
> 
> In other news, lovely readers, celebrate with me that I have now finished writing this story! The complete document has "The End" and everything and I am backing that mofo up like it, too, could get coronavirus. (Too soon? Probably.) I say this to explain the total chapter jump from 20 to 21; don't worry, that's it, there are 21 chapters, I promise. (You're welcome, Seaspray13!)


	12. Chapter 12

The next week seemed to happen to someone else, in Julian’s mind. Though it took him four days, he could now work a full shift in the infirmary. He could even interact with patients, though he had never been so glad of 24th century medicine allowing him to do most of his visits without the patient undressing or, really, without him even touching them. The distance felt stiff, but no one said anything. They were mostly glad to have their CMO back and accepted his story of a sudden illness for which he had been treating himself. The only glitch had been a moment on the third day when Jabara laid a hand unexpectedly on his shoulder to get his attention and he had flinched as though she’d hit him. Laughingly, Julian had said she’d startled him—it wasn’t completely wrong, as he’d been locked in his head doing breathing exercises after having to examine an expecting human woman. Even enhanced hearing is of little use when one is no longer mentally present in a room. Jabara had apologized in her curt way, but Julian caught her looking at him thoughtfully later that day, her brow slightly furrowed over her Bajoran ridges.

His sessions with Telnorri had gone down to twice a week, a move they both agreed was helpful to Julian easing back into his life. Julian told himself it did not bother him that Garak no longer accompanied him, that in fact he hadn’t seen Garak at all since he’d moved back into his own quarters. He had taken enough of the tailor’s time in the previous week; who knew what Garak had to do to catch up with his shop and his own affairs. When Garak had recovered from the withdrawal of the wire and remembered his confession that Julian was the one thing that kept him going on the station, the two of them had mindfully started finding the Cardassian other pursuits in addition to their lunches and, later, their relationship. So it was only fair that Garak be scarce now as Julian was readjusting. It was fine.

But Jadzia was not fine. “Julian, I have been so worried,” she said sternly on his first day back in the infirmary.

“Thank you,” Julian replied.

“’Thank you’? That’s it?” 

He could almost _feel_ the way he stepped out of himself, what Telnorri called “dissociation.” He understood why it was happening, and that it probably wasn’t good that it was happening, and that Jadzia certainly didn’t mean to cause it to happen—and still it happened. He watched as Dr. Bashir took over, prim, efficient, all smooth edges polished until they were a mirror.

“I’m very grateful for your concern, Jadzia,” Dr. Bashir said. “I regret that I was not able to speak with you earlier, but I reassure you I did get your messages and deeply appreciated your recognition of my being—indisposed.” Julian frowned internally as Dr. Bashir hitched on “indisposed,” as the façade slipped ever so slightly, as the night before intruded with its screaming and the eventual move to the couch, fingers hesitating over the comm, the desire to call Garak held firmly in check by the recognition that he had already asked too much, the confirmation in Garak’s first absence in the walk to Telnorri’s that morning. Dr. Bashir straightened up a little more. “But I must return to work now, as I have a great deal to do that was left undone this past week.”

Jadzia stared at him. “That—that’s it? You’re _dismissing_ me?”

Julian pulled his professionalism tighter, suffocating himself with it. “I would not wish you to take offense at it, Lieutenant Dax. But I really do have quite a bit of work ahead of me.”

“Fine,” said Jadzia, more than a little snap to her voice. “Then we’ll talk this out over dinner. Quark’s, 1700 hours.” Without waiting for a response, she turned and left the infirmary.

It was all Julian could do to calmly walk himself to his office before collapsing. He knew he could not go to that dinner, any more than he could sleep in his own bed, any more than he could stand naked on the Promenade. But even Dr. Bashir could not stop Jadzia Dax once she had gotten a thing into her mind, and simply not going would only make things worse. Julian rested his head in his hands and tugged on his hair. He wished he could ask Garak what to do; for all his isolation, Garak always had a better understanding of social graces than Julian ever did. But he could not—he would not go running to Garak for every little thing. He had to stand on his own two feet and stop bothering the poor man at every turn.

He would figure this out. He had to.

***

At the end of that first shift back, Julian felt as though he’d been beaten all over again. He had always wanted to be around people, always loved learning about them and trying to figure out who they were, but even in this half-day he was overwhelmed by the complexity of people. Who else carried wounds he could not find with his tricorder? Who else held to themselves the quiet fear of distrust, of not knowing who was safe to be around? Julian hated it, hated this new level of self-pity, hated this constant undercurrent of just-controlled panic, hated how _aware_ he was of everyone’s physical proximity to him. It didn’t matter that he had spent two years in this infirmary; suddenly it was dangerous, and that was every bit as painful as the first punch had been.

He considered going back to his quarters, avoiding Jadzia altogether—but the thought of his quarters and their not-quite-cleanness was a whole different kind of exhausting, and Jadzia would just come there and talk to him anyway. He closed out the last of his records for the day and heaved himself up to go to Quark’s.

“Will we see you tomorrow, Doctor?” asked Jabara, her tone gently playful.

“Not until later in the morning,” Dr. Bashir answered with a false heartiness. “I’ve found I quite enjoy sleeping in a bit.”

Jabara coolly assessed his sunken eyes, his paled skin, and his tense muscles. “Well, I can’t fault a man for finding refreshment where he can,” she said, and the lance of pain that shot through Julian’s expression told her he knew that she knew something beyond an illness was wrong. The small smile of gratitude that followed said he knew that she would not expose it. “Rest well, Doctor,” she said, her normally arch tone softer.

He inclined his head at her before leaving the infirmary, a gesture that felt oddly familiar. It wasn’t until Jabara was standing at the door to her own quarters that she realized it was the same tilt as Garak, the Cardassian, and she wondered at the connection.

Julian crossed the Promenade to Quark’s in a cloud of shame and hope at the exchange with Jabara, at the unspoken recognition that he was not okay but she would work with that. He thanked the stars and whoever else was listening for a staff as efficient and professional as his—and then cursed everyone under those stars as he took in the raucousness of the evening crowd in front of him. No, he could not do this. He could not cross the sea of drinkers, he could not listen to the cries of “Dabo!” in their irregular rhythms, he could not tune out the hundreds of conversations buzzing through the bar, he could not ignore the people of every species entering and exiting the holosuites with fanfare and furtiveness.

He could not be here. It was too much.

A bright laugh helped him find Jadzia in the overwhelming kaleidoscope; she was seated at a table off to the side on the main floor, her face lit up with mirth as Quark leaned over her with his fingers lightly resting on her shoulder. Still laughing, Jadzia glanced away from Quark and right at Julian. The two looked at each other for a moment, Jadzia’s smile fading, and Julian knew he could no more cross the threshold than he could breathe outside the airlock. He closed his eyes, shook his head, and turned away.

Jadzia stood up, murmuring apologies to Quark, and threaded her way through the gathering crowd to chase after Julian. What had just happened? The look on Julian’s face had been a thousand things, but chief among them was a grief that she didn’t like to see on those still in their first lifetime.

By the time she made it to the Promenade, Julian had already left on the lift. She walked toward it herself, figuring he was heading to his quarters, intent on finding out what was going on—and was so focused that she did not see Garak until he stepped in front of her.

“Good evening, Dax,” he said smoothly.

“Garak, I’m sorry, but I’m trying to catch—”

“Julian.” Infuriatingly, he stepped with her to block her path to the lift.

“Yes; now if you would please _move_ —”

“I will not.”

She stopped trying to go around him and simply stared. “What?”

“I was just closing up shop for the evening and happened to notice that Dr. Bashir was in rather a hurry to get where he was going. Had he wanted you to catch him, he would have let you.”

Jadzia put her hands on her hips and glared. “And what would _you_ know about what he wanted?”

Sadness that was almost physically palpable drifted over Garak’s face for a split second before he rearranged his customer-pleasing blankness. “Much, actually.”

Drawing a deep breath, Jadzia tugged on her own ponytail. “Right. I get that you two are involved, and that’s fine, but he just bailed on me and I am done with this relay of messages and I want to talk to my friend _right now_ and _you_ are in the way.”

“That I am, and the commander would back up my right to be.”

“What’s Benjamin got to do with this?”

“Simply that, for once, he and I have the same goal—protecting the good doctor.”

“From me?” Jadzia scoffed in disbelief.

“From everything,” Garak said softly.

Dax’s eyes narrowed and she tapped her comm badge. “Computer, locate Dr. Bashir.”

“Dr. Bashir is in the Habitat Ring, level five,” came the computer’s smooth response.

“Don’t,” said Garak, and something like pain was in his voice. “Go talk to Sisko if you must, but let Julian run.”

Dax stared at him a moment before curtly nodding. Garak let her go around him to the lift before double checking the securities on his shop. He leaned heavily against the closed door for a moment, replaying the view of Julian hurrying away with his arms clenched around himself. Garak had waited until Julian’s shift ended, had watched him cross to Quark’s, had seen the instant Julian was overpowered by the noise of it all.

Had not stopped him, either.

Garak went to the lift and headed to his own quarters, his Julian-free quarters, and replicated several ceramic vases so that he would have something to shatter against the unforgiving walls.

***

“Are you here for dinner, old man?” asked Sisko playfully when Jadzia stepped into his quarters. “You’re a bit early for that.”

“I’m here to tell you—and Garak, and Julian, and whoever else needs to hear it—to stop shutting me out.”

All the playfulness left Sisko’s face and he turned away from her. “I thought I told you to leave it, Jadzia.”

Jadzia’s eyebrows raised in surprise. It was a very rare thing for Benjamin Sisko to call her by her given name—“old man,” often, “Dax,” sometimes, even “Lieutenant,” but very rarely “Jadzia.” “He just ran away from meeting me at Quark’s, Benjamin, and—the look of pain on his face…I can’t keep waiting for an explanation when he’s so obviously hurting.”

“So why are you in my quarters and not his?”

Jadzia opened her mouth, closed it. She tried again, her tone a little sheepish even to her. “Garak told me not to go there.”

Sisko smiled, an expression with no joy in it at all. “And you listen to Garak, now?”

“For this. I have seven lifetimes of intuition to lean on; sometimes I listen to them when they tell me to heed a person’s advice.”

“Never seems to work in _my_ favor,” Sisko muttered.

Jadzia chuckled, briefly. “I know you can’t tell me because you’re his commanding officer, but can you tell me as his friend? As mine?”

A sigh that defied the odds of his lung capacity hissed out of Sisko and he collapsed onto the couch. Jadzia sat opposite him, waiting.

“He—Bashir— _Julian_ , he—” Sisko cursed, hating how much he didn’t want to say it out loud, realizing how much he needed to. He _wanted_ someone else to carry this, with him if not for him, someone who could help him figure out how to support the now-reclusive young doctor…someone who wasn’t a Cardassian. He balled his hands into fists and pushed through his doubt and his anger and his disgust. “He was attacked.”  


“By whom?” said Jadzia, all senses on alert.

“Dukat.”

“That—ugh, Kira’s been _trying_ to tell me he’s dangerous. She said he used to beat Bajorans on this station just for being in the way—but I can’t believe he’d go after a Federation doctor! Why Julian?”

Sisko closed his eyes. “No, Dax, he didn’t just _beat_ Julian. He _raped_ him.”

The silence unfurled between them until Sisko opened his eyes again. Jadzia’s mouth hung open, a tear sliding down alongside her Trill spots.

“But—why?” she finally whispered.

“It appears Dukat and Garak are old enemies.”

“And Julian is with Garak,” Jadzia completed, the memory of her conversation with the secretive tailor surfacing in a new and horrifying light. “It was revenge.”

“Garak found someone who makes his exile bearable, I suppose, and Dukat couldn’t have that.” Sisko looked down at his hands, faintly surprised that they were entwined tightly enough to lighten the rich brown skin to a dark peach. He breathed deeply and relaxed his grip.

“Oh, Benjamin,” Jadzia murmured. “When?”

“Just about a week ago.”

“That’s why he wasn’t at work.”

Sisko nodded.

“Has—has he been treated, has he been talking to someone other than Garak, has—”

Sisko held up a hand to stem the tide of questions. “I’ve already told you more than I should have, Dax. Whatever other details you want will have to come from him.”

Jadzia wiped the tears from her face and chuckled drily. “Garak said that, for once, you and he have the same goal.”

“Which is?”

“Protecting Julian.”

Sisko smiled. “That we do,” he said softly. “And part of protecting him is keeping a tight lid on this; Dr. Bashir doesn’t want this to be bandied about on the Promenade.”

“Of course,” Jadzia said. “Who already knows?”

“Of the senior staff, me, Odo, and now you. Who Bashir has talked to is his own business.”

Jadzia nodded and grasped one of Sisko’s hands. “Thank you, Benjamin, for telling me. This is helpful—this lets me know how to be a friend to him and not overwhelm him again.”

“Again?” Sisko raised an eyebrow.

“I told him to meet me for dinner at Quark’s tonight,” Jadzia said sadly. “He bolted when he saw me; I can only imagine how overpowering the bar must have seemed to him.”

Sisko groaned at the thought. The image of the doctor curled around himself as the breeze off the Bay ruffled his hair washed through his mind with the feeling of Bashir pulling away from even the possibility of brushing against someone else.

“Jadzia,” he said, realizing he was still holding her hand. “Take care of him, okay?”

Dax looked searchingly at him for a moment before nodding, slipping away from him and out of the quarters just as Jake bounced in, full of a story about his adventures that Sisko half-heard over the quiet _swish_ of the door sliding closed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gendered though it is, scenes like this are why I included the "Jadzia is a good bro" tag, because she definitely is. For those of you who are awaiting more O'Brien and Kira, rest assured that they have scenes of their own in the next chapter. They, also, are good bros.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And now we dip back into canon a bit; I'm pulling in s2ep23 "Crossover" for the rest of the book and messing with it, so I recommend watching that alongside reading this to get all the references. I've lifted a bit of the dialogue between Kira and Julian from that episode but altered its trajectory, both to suit my story and because I really hate what a playboy Julian is in the first couple seasons.

The next morning, Jadzia arrived at Julian’s quarters half an hour before he was set to go on shift. “Dax to Bashir,” she said, tapping her comm badge rather than the door panel.

“Bashir here,” came the terse reply.

“Julian, can I see you before you go into work?”

There was a pause. “I don’t have much time,” came the eventual reply.

“I’m already here,” she said, pressing the door chime. “Dax out.” She heard some scuffling in the room, followed by a muffled, “Enter.”

When she crossed the threshold, Jadzia saw that Julian was across the room, pressed into the doorframe, already in his uniform. His arms were crossed tightly over his chest.

“Jadzia, I’m sorry—” he began, but Jadzia raised a hand to cut him off.

“Julian, I had no right to push you into meeting me. I’m sorry, and I’m sorry that you felt like you couldn’t trust me enough to tell me no, and I’m sorry that I didn’t listen to how overwhelmed you already were.”

Julian loosened a little, confusion splayed across his face. Jadzia bit her lip and decided to continue.

“I chased after you,” she admitted, cursing the fact that she could still be embarrassed after so many years. “Garak stopped me.”

“Garak?” questioned Julian in an odd voice.

Jadzia nodded. “He said that I should let you go. We got in a bit of a row, actually, but I finally listened to him—and then went stomping off to Benjamin.”

Julian’s body tensed up again. “And he told you.”

“And I _made_ him tell me,” Jadzia said, taking a step further into the room. Automatically, Julian took a step back. Jadzia stilled, holding herself as loosely and as open as possible. “I was going crazy, knowing that something was wrong with you but not knowing what or how I could help.”

“And do you know how to help, now?” The question came out flat, harsh.

“No,” said Jadzia, honestly. “But I know a little bit better how not to keep hurting you.”

Julian closed his eyes and the pair stood in the silence for a moment. When he opened his eyes again, they shone too bright. “I appreciate that,” he said in little more than a whisper.

“Julian, I care about you. And I will be—I _am_ here for you. Can we—can we try dinner again?” Jadzia asked.

Julian brushed a hand over his eyes, deciding. 

“It doesn’t have to be soon,” she said into his hesitation.

He nodded. “A week from today, okay? And not—not at Quark’s.”

Jadzia smiled. “Not at Quark’s. Do you want the Replimat or would you like to stay in one of our quarters?”

“I’ll know when we get closer, if that’s okay.”

“One day at a time.”

“Absolutely.” Julian paused a moment. “To think this is what it took to have you invite me to dinner at your quarters,” he said wonderingly. He smiled, a ghost of the brilliant grin Jadzia had seen so often, and it faded quickly.

Jadzia was glad to see humor returning, but both of them knew it wasn’t really funny at all. “Until next week,” she said. “Unless you need me before then.”

He nodded and she turned and left, the space between them a little less aching.

***

It took three more days for O’Brien to make his way into the infirmary to check on Julian. In a way, Julian admired the restraint. A far more sinister voice whispered that O’Brien was glad to finally be rid of him, just like Garak who had also been scarce. Julian did not like that voice. It sounded faintly like Dukat. Telnorri told him it would, for a while.

“Several of the life-support units have been glitching a bit in this sector,” O’Brien said once he’d entered and spotted Julian. “Would it be alright if I had a look around to make sure these ones aren’t dodgy, too?”

Julian almost smiled at the transparency of the excuse. “Of course, Chief,” he said, all professionalism. “Shall I go with you for this preventive maintenance?”

The Irishman looked surprised, although Julian couldn’t tell whether it was because it had been that easy to pull him aside; suddenly Julian felt wrong-footed and foolish. Things fell apart all the time on this station—who was to say that there wasn’t a legitimate concern, that O’Brien wasn’t simply doing his job? Not everything was about him, after all, that mighty Dr. Bashir.

 _Hush_ , he said to the Dukat voice as Telnorri had told him to do. _We don’t know anything yet._

O’Brien smiled, sheepishly, and nodded. Julian followed him to Julian’s own office—there was indeed an access point to the life-support units here, but it was far from the main event. His assessment had been right, then. Julian let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.

“So, it would seem that some things have been offline, or at least acting up,” said the chief once they were in Julian’s office. Julian smiled; it was almost adorable, how O’Brien could ask a thing without asking it. He reflected that it might be better to stay within the charade; it was enough that O'Brien had made his way here, really.

“Some systems certainly have been malfunctioning lately,” Julian responded as O’Brien made a show of examining some panels. “There was a—” his voice caught. Even the charade didn’t dull the pain of it. “There was a massive shock to the system,” he said, quietly. O’Brien looked right at him, abandoning the panels, and Julian wondered how to phrase this and whether Miles would even want to know, whether he would be disgusted by his friend who kept falling in with bloody Cardies. “A—an intrusive object was—was forced into…” He trailed off, unable to continue the vague language cloaking such a specific reality.

“Anything I can do?” Miles asked, concern all over his expressive face.

“Just—just keep an eye on the gauges,” Julian replied, grateful and ashamed all at once. “Some things have to recalibrate themselves, at least at first.”

O’Brien nodded. “Especially on a station like this, I find that some systems are more finicky than others. They take a gentler touch, and the understanding of a good engineer who knows when not to force things.”

Julian blinked, unwilling to let the tears gather in his eyes. “A gentler touch is much appreciated. This particular…malfunction…is pretty delicate, but I trust the best engineer I know to help the system restart itself.”

The tips of O’Brien’s ears reddened. “I’m glad to hear it,” he said. “I’ll keep an eye out; I’m sorry to hear it’s a delicate job, those can take quite a while to untangle. Let me know if it acts up and I’ll get on it right away.”

“Will do, Chief,” said Julian. “And—thank you.”

“Doing my job, Doctor.”

Julian smiled and O’Brien, with a bit of red in his fair skin, left the office.

“Did he fix whatever he was here for?” asked the nurse when Julian came out a moment later.

Julian chuckled. “Fix? No. But I think he has a better handle on it.”

“Right handy with things, that chief.”

“That he is,” said Julian distantly, watching his friend enter the lift. “That he certainly is.”

***

It was strange to think it had been an entire month, but then time had a curious way of continuing no matter what anyone else’s opinions were on the matter. It was stranger still how much of Julian’s life had fallen back into place: twice a week he and Miles went to the holosuites or simply had a pint together before Quark's filled up for the evening, although even the holosuites were about side-by-side athletic pursuits as Julian found he couldn’t quite stomach their usual love for violence and derring-do. He had had dinner with Jadzia twice, a feat his old self would have burst to achieve.

His old self. No matter how much time passed, Julian still thought of that night as a sharp turn in who he was, and it showed in every instance he fled a crowd, every moment he flinched when someone grabbed him unexpectedly, every time he woke in the night gasping in twisted sheets and the too-hot room he had changed the second night back and had never managed to return to human-specific temperatures.

It showed in every day that went by without talking to Garak.

It had been three weeks since they’d said a word to each other, since they’d done more than nod across the Promenade as they began their separate days. It was a new normal that cloaked Julian in a meter-thick barrier from everyone—don’t touch, take care, keep out. He wondered, sometimes, whether this was how Garak had felt before he’d dared to lay a hand on a Starfleet officer’s shoulder two years ago and begin a whole new adventure.

Julian also wondered whether he would have the same kind of courage now.

“Doctor!” called Major Kira, coming off the lift. “May I have a word?” She met him as he stood just outside the infirmary, thankfully too distracted to notice that he'd been standing still, staring at Garak’s Clothiers for a full minute before beginning his shift. 

“Doctor, are you sure you have everything in order to go to New Bajor?”

Julian hid his smile. Kira had asked in no fewer than seven separate ways in the last four days whether he was ready; it was clear she did not believe his assurances.

“I believe that I do, Major.”

“You believe? Doctor, we’re leaving this afternoon.”

“I am aware, thank you. Would it make you more at ease to go over my checklist?”

She eyed him warily. “Are you doctoring me, Doctor?”

Julian’s smile broke out in full. “But of course, Major. It’s clear your body is showing signs of anxiety. Should I also take a moment to examine your heart rate and other vital signs?”

“I’m fine,” she said shortly, “and I get your point. I’ll see you at the shuttle.” She turned on her heel and left. 

Julian breathed deeply. Fun though it was to poke at her high level of stress, he was not altogether calm himself. Beyond the regular jitters of making sure they had everything for the hospital in the Gamma Quadrant—Julian noted to himself that he decidedly was _not_ thinking of it as “the frontier”—there was the deep fear that this was the first time Julian had left the station since…He knew it was completely irrational, but his brain did not currently care about rationality. Dukat was out there, somewhere, among the stars, and Julian had run no fewer than 25 scenarios in which their paths crossed again out from under the protection of Commander Sisko and Deep Space Nine.

***

Hidden behind the mannequin at the front of his shop, Garak watched Julian turn away from Major Kira, the now-common half-smile sliding off his angular face. Garak clutched at the scarf in his hand; he wanted to go to Julian, but why? To say that he was sorry? To hear for himself that Julian was still far from all right? Garak touched his eyeridge absently, the echo of the implant’s pain still phantomly pulsing in his mind. No, he would not go to Dr. Bashir. He would say nothing, and Julian would one day recover that full smile that shone like a beacon because the Cardassians would stop causing him so much pain.

Garak knotted the scarf and turned away, missing the way Julian refocused on the shop front, hesitating, before crossing to the infirmary with no smile at all.

***

The trip to New Bajor went, for the most part, smoothly. Julian locked his anxieties away behind the very powerful awareness of how much Kira Nerys did not want to have him along for the ride, and then buried them under a planet’s worth of professionalism as they worked through the thousands of unexpected hiccups of the new hospital. Dr. Bashir could handle all things, after all. Dr. Bashir was a chief medical officer.

 _Julian_ could take a backseat for a while.

And he did; Bashir found himself enjoying the constant stream of new puzzles and problems that brought him to the best kind of weariness at the end of each day. He reveled in being challenged, in being _busy_. The fear unwound, slightly, amidst all these Bajorans who were so glad to be building anew.

It wasn’t until the ride back that the fear rewound itself into a knot and sat, thickly, in Julian’s chest. He couldn’t dislodge it; he tried updating his log, he tried talking with Kira about meditation, he tried his old breathing techniques. That helped, but the blackness of space and the fear that Dukat was just beyond the viewscreen undercut the work. He tried music, bantering about Tor Jolan with Kira, thanking his starry-eyed new self for making it a point to listen to Bajoran composers. The tension within him eased and he noticed that the tension between them did, too.

Slightly. 

“Would you like to have dinner sometime?” he found himself asking. 

“I think you’d better stick with Dax,” Kira responded, the frost back in her tone.

“I’m sorry?” Julian calculated, watching her body language, and realized the mistake. “Oh, you thought that I was trying to…no, no, it wasn’t meant to—”

“My mistake,” Kira said, cutting him off.

The two of them sat in silence for a moment and the fear crept back into Julian’s chest, squeezing, flattening him, and he felt the weight of a Cardassian pushing him down—

“Computer, restart Tor Jolan,” Julian blurted out.

“What is with you?” Kira snapped. “Why can’t you just sit here?”

Julian laughed bitterly and Kira looked at him. What could he say? _I’m sorry, I’m just scared of how big space is and the fact that it contains one single humanoid who terrifies me?_ No, not that.

“Dr.—Julian, what is wrong?”

Julian turned to face her. “What do you mean, Major?”

Her eyebrow quirked at the address, so formal so soon after having taken the liberty of calling her by her given name. “You’ve been—you’ve been not-yourself for weeks now. And you were in some kind of deep focus on New Bajor that I wondered if you’d snap out of. And now you are all over the place to keep yourself occupied, which, frankly, is stressing me out. What’s going on?”

Julian closed his eyes, held the panic at bay. To tell _Kira Nerys_ , of all people, one of the strongest women he’d ever met—what would she _think_ of him, having…having allowed this?

“Julian?” Kira asked, her voice soft.

“Somewhere,” Julian said without opening his eyes, “somewhere, out in space, on the other side of that wormhole, is a Cardassian who—a Cardassian who raped me.”

He heard Kira’s sharp intake of breath. Her voice came hard when she spoke. “Julian, was it Garak?”

Julian laughed out loud and opened his eyes, chagrined at the anger and horror on her face. “I’m sorry, Nerys, I’m not—no, it was not Garak. It definitely was not Garak.” The idea was hilarious and so, so painful; Garak, who had stood by his side through everything, could not, _would not_ hurt him.

Kira’s eyes narrowed, but she held her tongue and cocked her head, waiting.

Julian studied his hands rather than her face, hating that he was telling her this, hating that it was something to tell. He swallowed. “Dukat,” he half-whispered. “When he was on the station a month ago.”

Julian felt Kira’s hand rest on his knee and gently squeeze.

“I’m sorry,” Julian said, wiping away the tear he hadn’t realized was sliding down his cheek. “I’m just—I’ve been having trouble with knowing that we’re going back to our sector and knowing that I’m off the station and I’ve been quite anxious about it, but it’s nothing, it’s my own problem and I’ll keep quiet and let you do your mediations, I’m sorry—” _I’m sorry for letting it happen_ , he heard in his own head.

“Julian,” Kira said, her voice both soft and unyielding. “It was not your fault.”

He swung his eyes up to meet hers, wondering how she had heard the unvoiced thought. She studied him for a moment and he could almost see the decision being tumbled about in her mind, could watch her choose her next statement.

“When I was on DS9 when it was still Terok Nor, there was—there was a guard, a Cardassian guard who…who took a liking to me. I was with the Resistance undercover and I couldn’t afford to draw attention, so I didn’t…dissuade him as much as I might have liked. One day he got tired of making comments and pulled me into an empty hallway, pushed me against the wall…”

Julian’s knot of fear turned sick.

“He didn’t get very far,” she said, not looking at him; “he was interrupted and I managed to get away, but I still remember the feeling of his hands under my clothes, the knowledge that he was half-everted.” She paused and the silence between them lay unbroken, heavy. “He, uh; he is no longer…living such that I would be afraid of meeting him in open space.”

Julian found that he did not want to know the circumstances of that man’s death. He doubted they were pleasant, or quick.

“So I—I don’t know how you feel, but I can guess. And it wasn’t your fault. Just…remember that. Hold onto it.” She turned back to the console, taking them out of warp as the wormhole bloomed in front of them.

Stunned, Julian nodded. The magnitude of trust in that story floored him, and the reality of how many Bajorans probably had a similar one crushed him. It hadn’t even occurred to him on the planet, but how many of those with whom he’d just worked on the new hospital would understand? How many had survived the occupation but did not come through fully intact? While he had been fleeing his own fear, who had been working alongside him with the same kind of pain shoved deep within?

He opened his mouth to respond, to thank her, to apologize, to say _something_ , when a flashing light on the console caught his eye. He shifted, trying to identify the problem.

“What’s wrong?” Kira asked.

“The warp field’s not fully collapsed; I’m showing a plasma injector leak,” he responded.

Kira hunched over her own console. “The injector controllers are locked. I’m trying to compensate.”

A wholly different kind of fear sparked in Julian’s stomach as the wormhole spun around them.

***

The peculiar ache in Garak’s torso had almost started to ease. At least, that’s what he told himself. And he certainly didn’t check to see whether Julian— _Dr. Bashir_ —was on shift when he opened his shop, or when he closed it. The weeks apart had been good for them. It was best, this way.

So it should not have felt as strange as it did to realize that Bashir had not been in the infirmary in days. He must be on a mission—a mission of which Garak knew nothing, a mission that would certainly be more complicated since it was Julian— _Bashir’s_ first time off the station since…since. Did his crew know to protect him? What if he met Dukat in space?

Garak shook himself and bent further over the bolt of cloth in front of him. Such maudlin protectiveness was not his to have; Dr. Bashir was a Starfleet officer, and while that didn’t count for much it did mean that Bashir could handle himself in a regular firefight. And the odds of an encounter in the vastness of space were, to pardon the pun, astronomical. Bashir had probably already calculated them anyway and gone ahead.

“Garak?” Lieutenant Dax stood tentatively in the doorway of his shop.

Garak looked up from his project, carefully and automatically locking in the pattern so that he could let it go without losing the stitch. The uncertainty in the lieutenant’s voice kicked his alarms into gear.

“How may I help you, Lieutenant?”

He deliberately used her title to see if she would correct him, but she seemed not to have noticed. The distractedness made Garak even more wary.

“Garak, I—I know you and Julian have had a falling out lately,” she began, and Garak put all his effort into keeping his surprise off his face. Had she come here to chastise him about their relationship? Surely that didn’t merit the level of concern in her eyes.

“But I also know that you two will figure it out, eventually.” 

Garak kept his reservations and his shock at her brazen audacity to himself, waiting.

“The commander isn’t thrilled with you knowing about this, but I told him that it was right to tell you.”

The build-up was admirably circuitous, but Garak had lost patience with it. “Tell me what, Lieutenant?”

“Julian is missing.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are several stories on this site about the things Kira likely experienced during the Occupation; I have no doubt there was at least one incident like the one she describes here, whether it's ever referenced in canon or not. 
> 
> Awkward and gentle O'Brien is so endearing to write, also.


	14. Chapter 14

It was absolutely impossible that the recycled air of the station had in any way changed, or that Garak’s lungs were operating in any different way than they were designed, but impossibility had nothing to do with the reality that Garak suddenly could not breathe. His fingers locked into a rigor around the garment in his hands, pulling the stitches to bursting, wrinkling the fabric. A cascade of possibilities tumbled through his mind, each more unlikely than the next, but at the top of them all was one name.

Dukat.

“Where was he supposed to be?” Garak asked, amazed that his voice didn’t sound like he was suffocating, that his pulse wasn't actually audible at this rate.

“He and Kira went to do some work on New Bajor. They finished their mission there and were on their way back, we know, but we haven’t heard from them since they left the planet. They should have gotten back by now, but we haven’t had anything come through the wormhole.”

The wormhole—that bizarre and unnatural tear in space, that portal controlled by aliens not even Sisko could properly explain. Garak felt himself oddly comforted; Julian being missing was still terrible news, but there was something hopeful in the possibility that the anomaly had gone awry rather than the ship being captured by the errant Cardassian.

Even though the possibility of Dukat having captured them was, from the beginning, incredibly slim. Garak tamped the idea down as foolish paranoia, focusing on the reality of the missing ship rather than the mad fantasy of Julian having fallen prey once again to cruelty.

“Garak, I know Julian was worried about going on this mission in the first place; I know he still has a lot of healing to do and that you two haven’t…well, you haven’t been together as much. I don’t fully know why, of course, but I know Julian still cares deeply for you and I thought you should know that we’re doing everything we can to find out what happened.”

Garak clicked his placating persona on, forcing his fingers to unclench, his pulse to slow. “My thanks for the information, Lieutenant—”

“Dax,” she corrected him.

“Dax,” he conceded. “I have indeed been missing my lunch companion of late; there are few here who so readily engage the wonders of a good enigma tale, although I despair of ever getting Dr. Bashir to fully understand their many layers.”

Jadzia stared at him, mouth slightly open. “That’s it?”

“What’s what?”

“I tell you Julian is _missing_ and you talk about how you have no one to talk about _literature_ with you?”

“Such discussions are highly prized among Cardassians.”

“I swear, the two of you—if you weren’t _both_ such stupid—look, I know that you’re not thrilled to show your actual emotions, and I know you two have been on the rocks, but _seriously_ , I’d think—never mind. Now you know, and you can continue hemming your shirt like you don’t care, but you know and I know that you’re absolutely full of it if you think I’m going to believe you only think of him as a _lunch partner_.” Jadzia punctuated each unfinished sentence with a hand flick toward Garak, her gestures widening until her whole upper body was part of the diatribe. Her frustration would have been quite entertaining, in any other circumstance. She exhaled in disgust, turning to leave.

“Lieutenant,” Garak said, reaching out and grabbing part of her sleeve. “ _Dax_ ,” he amended as she turned to glare at him. “I—thank you. For the information.”

Her ferocity softened. “I don’t know what went wrong, but he _needs_ you, Garak. You—I don’t know how, but you hold him steady. And he needs steady right now, especially if whatever has happened adds more trauma to what he’s already trying to handle. If— _when_ he gets back, _be there for him_. Okay?”

Garak tamped down his instinctive impatience at being on the receiving end of relationship advice packaged with all the Trill’s assumptions about their relationship. “I will do what he allows,” he said. 

She nodded, satisfied. “I’ll keep you in the loop as best I can,” she promised. She looked down at her sleeve and Garak let go, surprised that he had still been holding on. She briefly grabbed the retreating hand, squeezed gently, and left.

While Garak’s contacts had little to do with the wormhole, it could not hurt to see what they knew. Stretching the mangled fabric back out flat on his worktable, Garak set about closing the store, glad he had no appointments to cancel for the day. Enclosing himself in his back room with his computer console, he carefully encrypted his communications and reached out to the galaxy to see what traces Kira Nerys and Julian Bashir had left behind.

***

“Miles, are you okay?”

O’Brien started, wondering how long Keiko had been talking to him. “I’m—yeah, I’m fine, honey.”

“You’re not fine, but we don’t have to talk about it.” She sat next to him, perching on the sofa’s arm and leaning slightly into his shoulder. “You’ve been somewhere else all evening.”

He shrugged and watched Molly play on the floor for a moment before answering. “I’m—I’m thinking about Julian and Kira, is all. It doesn’t make any sense, them not being on any of our scanners or in range of anything. It’s like they dropped out of the universe, and Julian especially—” He stopped himself.

“Especially what?” Keiko asked.

“Nothing,” O’Brien muttered.

“He’ll be back,” Keiko said firmly. “Kira is a fighter and Julian isn’t stupid, so between the two of them they’ll figure out whatever they need to do. I know it’s frustrating not to be able to help, though.”

O’Brien reached up and entwined his hand with hers, squeezing slightly. Julian had been starting to bounce back a little, in the last week; the hooded look in his eyes was no longer permanent, and the tight coil of his body had begun to unwind just the smallest bit. Wherever he had gone now, O’Brien hoped it wouldn’t erase that progress. He missed his friend’s ready laugh—not that he would ever tell him, of course.

The chief sighed. Maybe he should, at that.

***

In the early hours of the morning, just as he was considering packing it in for the night, Garak stopped cold in his information-gathering. He was no closer to finding out where Julian had gone—but oh, what a different prize he had found.

 _Dukat_.

Sightings of his ship on the fringes of Cardassian territory filtered across Garak’s screen, dates and spatial locations in prim little rows of unassuming text. A back channel to a back channel had brought the news, and Garak felt his hands tighten around the console. The Federation could not go there. Cardassia would not go there. But he, Elim Garak—the exile, the spy— _he_ could.

A plan began unrolling in his mind almost without bidding—taking a runabout, perhaps even asking for it. After all, Sisko was no fan of Dukat’s, either, although he likely wouldn’t trust that Garak wouldn’t just kill him on the spot rather than bringing him in for Federation justice.

As well he shouldn’t. Garak had no intention of any other end than one that involved quite a bit of blood loss, pain, and eventual death.

If he were to take a runabout, then, and pretend to give himself up to Dukat—the fool would never think twice about the safety of it if there was the chance to make himself look better, to bring in the disgraced Elim Garak—and then were he to—

 _You promised_ , he heard in the back of his mind, Julian’s petulant voice as clear as if he’d been standing next to Garak.

Garak’s hands stilled on the screen. _And what of it?_ he asked the voice.

_You promised you wouldn’t take any steps without me._

_You’re not here to decide_. Garak shook his head. It was late, he had not slept, he had been concentrating hard for many hours, it was unsurprising his mind was playing tricks on him.

 _Will you be someone I cannot trust, too, Garak?_ continued the voice that was and wasn’t Julian’s.

“You should never have trusted me in the first place,” Garak snarled into the silence. The voice did not respond and Garak felt foolish, off-put. He really should sleep. He saved the information of Dukat’s whereabouts, promising himself that he would double-check it after some rest, would formulate a better plan when his mind was in peak order. Closing down the work station, Garak stretched out some of the tension in his neck and turned to leave, switching off the lights in the shop.

 _You are just like him_ , the voice of Julian came again, soundlessly accusatory.

“I am nothing like him,” whispered Garak, his hand on the shop lock, glad of the empty Promenade at this hour.

_Then will you listen to me when I tell you “no”?_

Garak locked the door with more force than was necessary in answer before leaving for his quarters where no one waited for him to return.

***

“I can tell you’re not concentrating, old man,” said Sisko, pushing his bishop forward.

Jadzia huffed at the board. “And you are? Why are we even playing this game?”

“We always play at this time.”

“Benjamin, Kira and Julian are _lost_.”

Sisko tapped the top of the bishop piece. “I am aware, Lieutenant.”

“And we’re playing _chess_?”

“Dax, you of all people should know that constant stress in a crisis is the best way to ensure it is prolonged. Come on, old man, I’ve watched you deal with much more stressful situations than this with barely a ripple of concern. I have ships from here to New Bajor looking for them, I have O’Brien running every possible scan, I have the whole crew running possibilities, and except for this half hour I have you thinking up anything we could have missed. This is—or was meant to be—a chance to look away from the problem and come back to it with fresh eyes. _You_ taught me to do that." He looked up at her. “Why are you forgetting it now?”

“He was just starting to smile again, Benjamin.”

Sisko sighed and knocked over his king, leaning heavily back into his chair. 

“And Kira is so—well, she would hate me for calling her fragile, but she’s been going through so much, too, unpacking and reconsidering and really starting to _grow_ , it’s—it’s beautiful, how she’s beginning to let herself unwind a little.” Jadzia blushed slightly and smiled at the board.

Eyebrow raised, Sisko kept his observations to himself. “Are you saying it should have been another pair that would have weathered being lost better?”

“Of course not. I’m saying that—I’m saying that I’m worried, about both of them, but especially about Julian. I mean, what if Dukat _is_ involved somehow? Julian was already anxious about leaving the station, but for whatever to have gone wrong…” Jadzia closed her eyes, briefly. “I was just starting to see the possibility of his old spark coming back, and I don’t want him to lose that again.”

“I know,” Sisko said, quietly. “I’m rooting for him, too, Dax. I still—I saw him right…after, and I’ll never forget that.”

“You never told me that,” Jadzia said, reaching over and gently touching Sisko’s hand. “Was—was it—”

Sisko closed his eyes tightly and the memory flashed across his eyelids, each bruise still vivid on the young doctor’s face. “I am not surprised it has taken him this long to smile,” Sisko said. He opened his eyes; Jadzia’s eyes were bright, the unshed tears making them almost glassy. He turned his hand over and grabbed hers fiercely, tightly. “But we will find them,” he declared. “And we will walk with them, with _both_ of them, through whatever they need next. For now, we will search, and we will take breaks so that our minds do not miss anything, and we will hold onto the hope in the uncertainty. Right?”

“Right,” Jadzia affirmed, a single tear falling as she nodded her head.

Sisko squeezed her hand once and let go. “Never thought _I’d_ be giving _you_ the pep talk,” he chuckled. 

“I’m letting you practice,” Jadzia replied with a smile.

_***_

By the end of the first full day that Julian had gone missing, Garak was no closer to knowing where he was; he seemed not to be anywhere in the universe. At lunchtime, Jadzia had come by and asked Garak to lunch. He had almost said no but had changed his mind, quite out of character, and accepted. It had been a strained but pleasant meal; Dax’s previous hosts were not terribly well versed in Cardassian history or literature, but Garak’s own wide range of knowledge had several overlapping points such that they could converse on many things in the hour. The unspoken absence of Julian lay between them like a third plate, unmentioned but solidly present. By the time Dax stood to return to Ops, Garak was almost sorry to see her go. She was a bright and fascinating woman, and beautiful besides; he appreciated anew why Julian had chased her for so long.

“We should do this again sometime,” Jadzia remarked as they began to part their separate ways.

Garak tilted his head toward her. “I would be honored to have a lunch partner of such caliber as yourself once more,” he said.

Jadzia reached out and laid her hand on his shoulder for one heartbeat, two, before pulling it back. “But you already do, and we’re going to find him,” she said. “I would hate to usurp such a relationship.” She smirked, but it didn’t reach her eyes.

_***_

Checking once more that everything was in order, Garak slipped through the lesser passageways and halls of DS9 on his way to the landing pads. His small bag—a regrettable but necessary addition—he held firm against his hip, keeping it from bouncing. He had heard Julian talk about holonovels of spies that he imagined, full of stealth and intrigue; Garak would have to drop in on one sometime to disillusion Julian of that vision of debonair secrecy, as this method of quietly and casually slipping under the radar was far closer to the truth.

Whatever that was.

Unseen at this early hour where morning and night shared titles, Garak arrived at the lock for the _Orinoco_ and began tapping in his override code, closing his mind to anything but a clear awareness of the empty passage around him.

“Going somewhere, are we?” came the dry voice of the security chief as the archway to Garak’s left materialized into a brown-clad man. 

Not so empty, then.

“Merely running an errand,” Garak said, his voice pleasant and cheerful.

“Rather late to be out on errands,” replied Odo. “And where could an exiled Cardassian have to go for an errand?”

“As you say, Constable, I am a Cardassian in exile, making it all the more important that I keep my movements out of suspicion’s eye.”

“By stealing a runabout.”

“Borrowing, for the moment.”

“At 0300?”

“What better time? This means I will not have to close my shop while I retrieve my items.”

“And what items would those be? Fabrics, or perhaps rare and marvelous buttons?”

Garak tilted his head.

“You’re not going after Bashir, are you?” asked Odo, coming around into Garak’s space, forcing the Cardassian to take a small step back to separate them.

“Of course not,” Garak said truthfully. “I am well aware that Commander Sisko has the search in hand and is doing all that he can to find both the doctor and the major.”

Odo stared unsettlingly at Garak for a moment; Garak was no stranger to the intimidation of silence, but Odo had an uncanny knack of almost looking _through_ someone as though they were no more truly solid than he. Externally, Garak returned Odo’s gaze with a charming smile; internally, he felt rather more _seen_ than he would like.

“You’re _not_ going after Bashir,” Odo said, the usual gruffness of his voice lessened, almost soft.

“Finally learning to believe me, Constable?”

“You’re going after Dukat.”

Garak said nothing.

Odo sighed. “I don’t want to know how you got whatever information you have that I don’t about Dukat’s whereabouts, and I most certainly don’t want to know what you had planned for him upon your arrival, but you cannot go, Garak.”

“As I said, I am—”

“Running an errand, yes, I heard. And I will stop you from doing so, and you can file whatever complaint you like about my thwarting your attempt to steal Starfleet property, but more importantly you cannot go off through the galaxy on a vendetta on Dr. Bashir’s behalf, especially when he isn’t here to tell you not to do such a thing.”

“What better time?” Garak retorted, giving up the ruse in his frustration at hearing Odo’s protest alongside the Julian in his own mind.

Odo crossed his arms and settled back in his stance, a favorite power move of his that Garak found rather theatrical for his taste. “Never,” he said. “I have talked with the doctor; he does not want vigilante justice, and I am not fooled that you wouldn’t know that.”

The idea of further conversation between Julian and Odo surprised Garak and he wondered what circumstances had brought that about, whether Julian had had to go to that office where Odo held such power, whether he had been able to hold down his fear when discussing that jagged rip in his life. But then, what did it matter? Julian was strong, and brilliant; he did not need Garak to figure out his own healing.

Only his revenge.

Garak opened his mouth.

“Whatever lie you have, I don’t want to hear it,” Odo interrupted. He uncrossed his arms and Garak could almost _see_ his painstaking study of humanoids and how their bodies communicated what words could not. “I do not know what is going on between the two of you, but I do know that he would not easily forgive this. However much pain you wish to inflict on Dukat—and believe me, I am sympathetic to that amount and more—it would not fix Bashir.”

“I do not need to ‘fix’ him,” Garak returned, his voice biting.

“Neither should you avenge him. Who will it help? You? Is this about you, Garak?”

 _This is_ my _pain_ , whispered a voice from a lifetime ago, the bruises still dark and aching. _Help me heal_. Garak closed his eyes against the memory.

“Go home, Garak,” said Odo, unsettlingly gentle. “Go home and wait for Bashir; I will take care of Dukat.”

“No,” said Garak, dully, “you won’t. But some day, I think, he will be his own end.” He turned away from the lock, away from Odo, away from this one chance to settle the score, to feel the blood of another Dukat on his hands. As an afterthought, he reached out and pressed a datarod into Odo’s palm. “You can try, though. I would very much appreciate it if you tried.”

Odo looked at him and tilted his head in the Cardassian gesture of respect and affirmation, and Garak walked off to wait in his quarters, alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chag Pesach kasher vesame’ach to my Jewish readers and happy Easter to my Christian ones; I hope your holy weeks have brought some sense of peace and grounding in this time.
> 
> My apologies to any Keiko fans that she has such a bit part in this tale; she didn't seem to fit anywhere else. Perhaps in a later story she'll get more "screen" time.
> 
> Lastly, if you think I'm setting myself up for a KiraDax spin-off story at some point in the future, you would be absolutely correct.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This assumes you've watched s2ep23, "Crossover." You'll miss a lot of references if you haven't, though it won't necessarily wreck the story for you.
> 
> Also, fair warning, here there be trauma-triggered Panic Attacks. Please do care for yourself accordingly.

Filthy, exhausted, and overwhelmed by the “looking glass” they had survived, Julian wanted nothing more than to shower and collapse when he walked through the airlock back on Deep Space Nine. However, Starfleet rarely cared about such niceties when there were questions to be asked and debriefings to be had, so Julian appreciated Commander Sisko meeting them at the docking door with at least some resignation to that reality.

“Through the looking glass, hey?” Sisko said as Kira stepped through first in her revealing purple dress. “I would say so.”

“Commander, may I have a minute to change before we have whatever conversation about where we’ve been that we have to have?” 

For perhaps the first time, Julian thanked the universe for Kira’s directness and unapologetic self-care.

Sisko looked over her shoulder, taking in the bedraggled sight of Bashir. “I’d say you need more than a minute,” he said. “Are there any injuries that need immediate tending or pieces of information I need right now? Nobody chased you back through the mirror, did they?”

Julian and Kira exchanged a look at his use of the term, sharing a small shudder at the idea of being chased back into their own universe. “No, Commander, nothing threatening,” said Kira.

“Only minor injuries,” reported Julian.

Sisko’s eyes lingered on Julian and the tears in his uniform a moment longer. “You have one hour to clean up; then report to my office,” he said. Kira nodded and turned to leave. “Dr. Bashir, if you would stay a moment,” Sisko added. Kira stopped and half-turned back to Julian; surprising them both, she reached out and squeezed his hand for a moment before heading away, a clear sign of support. 

No one had forgotten. 

Julian felt exponentially more tired.

“Dr. Bashir,” began Sisko, but Julian could not handle the idea of having that conversation at the moment, a conversation of overlapping ideas that he hadn’t even begun to have with himself yet, and certainly not here in this hallway where his mind was still seeing a crowned Intendant Kira challenging an armored and wary Garak, where this Sisko felt so strange after the mercurial mirror Sisko.

“I’m sorry, Commander, but I can’t—can we do this later? No, I’m not really okay, but I also could use a shower, and some time to process, and I promise to come to your office in 45 minutes rather than an hour to do this if that suffices.”

“You don’t have to talk to me if you don’t want to,” said Sisko.

“I know, and I appreciate—I mean, if I’m reading right—oh, Commander, I don’t know which way is up right now, but let me have a moment, please?”

Sisko nodded. “I’ll be in my office,” he said, and Julian thanked him before hauling himself away from the ship, from the hallway, from the frowning Garak and exploding Odo and the smell of the fear that he could not get off, again.

***

“They’ve returned,” said Odo in the doorway of Garak’s shop. “Both are alive and relatively unharmed, from what I hear.”

Garak did not pause in his work, bent over a particularly detailed dress. “I thank you for the information.”

Odo harrumphed and did not move, and Garak sighed internally at the pair of frauds they were, both acting as though they had not spent the last several days coiled like springs in worry and speculation for the ones they—well, the ones about whom they cared.

Fraud, indeed.

Finally, Garak realized Odo was waiting for a response of greater detail. He marked his stitching and hitched it higher on the table so he could let it go, straightening to face Odo and feeling his spine pop and crack. Guls, he was getting old at that.

“Have you further information for me?” Garak asked, deliberately using the syrup-sweet voice he knew Odo hated.

“He did not look well,” the constable replied, and oh if he didn’t know exactly how to twist the knife into Garak. “He and the major are set to debrief with the commander within the hour, so if you want to catch him before that I would suggest you do so now.”

“Were you part of the welcome party, then?” asked Garak, deflecting.

“I—was not,” said Odo, his gruff voice catching slightly. “The commander came and told me of their arrival.”

“Not the major?”

“No.”

“Pity—but then how do you know whether he looked well?”

Odo had the sense to look embarrassed and Garak smiled, the grin knowing and sharp. “You were spying, Constable.”

“I was not _spying_ ,” Odo retorted. “I was merely keeping out of sight in case anything should be awry.”

“Out of sight? As what, another bulkhead?”

“I thought you would want to know how the doctor looked,” said Odo, his affront clear, and Garak relented. Both of them were fools, indeed.

“Thank you, Odo,” he said, his tone as close to sincere as he could make it. “But I’m sure he will need some time alone before his debriefing.”

“You solids,” clucked Odo disbelievingly, “you spend so much time sorting out relationships with each other and then have no idea what to do with them once you have them.”

“And I suppose you have all of the greatest advice on what to do in a relationship, Constable Bulkhead?” countered Garak, his good will quite gone as Odo tread on the sore nerve.

“Hmmpf,” replied Odo, and left the shop without another word.

Garak couldn’t help but feel it was an empty victory.

***

Once in his quarters, Julian nearly collapsed in exhaustion but dragged himself to the bedroom and began removing the tatters of his uniform, letting them drop behind him as he walked to the bathroom. His weariness slowed his movements and he thought about how wonderful a shower would feel. Perhaps he would even have time for a quick nap before he had to face Sisko—and all that Sisko would represent. They had not spoken much, and shame over the commander’s special awareness of him warred with gratitude for the same in Julian’s belly. He sighed heavily, lamenting the ruined uniform, pulling off his shoes and socks. At the threshold he tripped, one leg still caught in his trousers, and fell heavily into the doorframe.

He froze, a hundred memories flooding through him like ice water. His arms ached with rope burns that were no longer there, the cuts and abrasions from working in ore processing morphing into gouges from fingernails and fists, his throat closing under the pressure of a phantom hand. The onslaught of the physical recall engulfed him and he fell to his knees, his breath hitching in his chest as he fought to stay present, to hold onto the reality of what was, to tap into every coping mechanism Telnorri had had time to teach him in the last month, but it wasn’t enough, it wasn’t working, his too-fast brain outran him and he was slipping, slipping down the doorframe that was surely covered in his own blood, the spattered remains of Odo exploding around him as remembrances overlapped and swallowed him whole, the pain like fire hotter than the ore vats, than the stars that burned outside his quarters and did not care that he could not breathe.

***

Garak stood outside of Julian’s door, debating with himself as he had the entire way over from his shop, weighing how foolish he would feel if he should be unwelcome. And what if Bashir had already gotten into the shower? What if he came to the door in a towel? Garak could not pretend, even to himself, that he didn’t still want the lithe doctor, didn’t miss the warmth of him in the night. He knew better than to expect anything like what they had had, but the loss of Bashir’s easy grin and his passionate banter ached as much to Garak as that of his deft fingers curling over Garak’s back. Even to lay eyes on him at this moment would be enough; Odo had been right, he needed to see the doctor for himself, unwell or no. Taking a deep breath, Garak pushed the door chime.

***

The sound of the door slit a thin line through the fog of panic and fear suffocating Julian and his mind scrabbled to hold onto it. Who could it be? He shook his head, dislodging the irrational thought of Dukat, of the intendant, of the Garak who looked at him with unforgiving eyes and called him “Terran” with a sneer his own Garak reserved only for the lowest of the low. Maybe—maybe it was Kira, _his_ Kira, and he began to laugh at the idea of Kira ever being in any way _his_ , and the laughter bubbled out of him like lava, tearing through his throat in higher and higher intervals and he knew he was losing to this panic attack, knew that all the triggers had been pulled, knew that he could not go through this again, and he threw back his head and let the dreadful laughter rupture into a scream that did not end.

***

There was no answer. He had known there would be no answer; Julian was probably in the shower, or sleeping, or any number of a hundred things that one would do after a mission that went awry in some way, that left the still-fragile doctor looking “unwell.” It was a mistake to come here, to try and fix this relationship right now when there was so much Bashir was dealing with; he had let his sentimentality win again, always a stupid choice. Garak huffed at himself, glad that at least no one else was in the hallway to witness his foolishness, and turned to leave just as he heard a long and anguished yell come from inside. Overriding the door command, Garak threw himself inside, sparing only a passing glace around the main room to ensure there was no one else. He followed the sound to the bedroom and found Julian at the end of a trail of torn and burned clothing curled into himself, rocking on the floor, his shouting subsiding into wracking sobs.

The familiarity of it crackled through Garak like a live wire and he drew a sharp breath, wondering if he could do this again, hating every part of this scene as the walls he had just begun to build around himself again shattered under the weight of this memory, of its aftermath. But he could do no other; kneeling once more, he called out, loudly, “Julian!”

The man’s sobs continued, but a hand snaked out from underneath the naked ball of human and reached blindly. Taking the chance, Garak clasped it with his own and found himself pulled to the man with surprising force that momentarily unbalanced him. He shifted closer, closer, until he was right next to Julian, his arm wound into Julian’s so that Julian’s shoulder jutted into Garak’s midsection. Julian curled around Garak’s thigh, his breath coming in hiccups and gulps as he gripped Garak’s hand tightly enough to endanger the blood flow. 

“Julian, I am here,” Garak soothed, not caring for now if that was a good thing, if it was enough, wanting only to hold all the pieces of this broken human together until they reknit themselves. “Julian, Julian, my dear.” He rubbed his free arm over Julian’s back, his fingers tracing burns and shallow cuts all across his torso. Garak held his questions to himself, held his anger to himself, and curled around the shaking body on his lap, rocking gently as Julian wept.

He did not know how much time passed before Julian’s breathing slowed and his grip on Garak’s hand eased slightly. It did not matter, really. Where had he to go that was more important than here? His knees, however, disagreed, and he slowly stretched them out, shifting his weight underneath Julian to ease their displeasure.

Julian let go of Garak’s hand and sat up, rubbing his face with the tattered remains of his uniform. He coughed, his throat raw and aching; his eyes felt swollen and sore. “I, uh, I guess you found out I’m back,” he croaked, aiming for humor and failing miserably.

“The constable was good enough to tell me,” said Garak.

“I am so sorry,” Julian said, “I did not—I mean, you didn’t have to…” he trailed off, uncertain how to apologize for any one piece of the entire mess he understood himself to be.

“Julian,” said Garak, bringing his legs around and settling more comfortably on the floor, ignoring the protest in his bones, “look at me.”

Julian did, too tired to protest. Garak’s own eyes shone suspiciously bright. Julian twisted toward him and reached up slowly, hesitantly, to trace down one of Garak’s eyeridges. Garak leaned into the touch, closing his eyes, and a single tear fell onto Julian’s palm. Garak rested his chin in Julian’s hand, lightly, and Julian rubbed his thumb across Garak’s cheek. Garak opened his eyes and gently took Julian’s hand in his own, kissing the palm where his tear had fallen. Julian sobbed once, a dry gulp empty of any more tears.

“We—we crossed into the mirror universe,” Julian said, as though that was supposed to mean something to Garak, “and there was a you there, but it wasn’t you, and you—well, not you, but that Garak was so cruel, and cold, and I was so afraid and they put me in processing and I killed Odo and we escaped and I came here and I fell into the door and the memory was so strong and I didn’t escape anything, I just traded one fear for another, and I thought I was getting better but I’m not better and I feel so alone, I feel so frightened, Elim, and I don’t know what to do, I don’t…” He wrapped his fingers around Garak’s, leaning his head against Garak’s chest, and Garak drank in the warmth and the intimacy of it. The pair breathed in silence for a moment until Julian shivered and Garak remembered where they were.

“Do you not have a debriefing soon, Doctor?” he asked.

“I do,” said Julian. “And I need to take a shower. I’m just…I’m not sure I’m totally present enough yet. I can’t…I don’t want to fall apart again, especially not in front of the commander.”

The unstated declaration of trust that he accepted falling apart in front of Garak warmed the Cardassian to his bones and he held the vulnerability carefully, treasuring it. “What do you need?” he asked.

Julian shook his head. “I don’t know, I don’t—I wasn’t expecting that at all, and I didn’t think I could find my way back…hang on, how exactly did you happen to be here?” He pulled back and looked at Garak, not angry but fondly suspicious.

Garak sighed. “The constable mentioned that you looked…less than yourself, and I—” His own voice caught slightly on the sharp edges of the truth he so often avoided. “I was concerned,” he said, opting for brevity in order to curtail his own shading.

“So you were lurking outside my door?”

“I do not ‘lurk,’” Garak protested, his heart skipping at the familiar rhythms and the outlines of a smile on Julian’s face. “I had rung the chime as a proper visitor should do.”

The smile slipped off Julian’s lips and his eyes clouded. “I was shouting,” he said.

“Yes,” said Garak. “I took the liberty of coming in.”

“I—I am glad,” said Julian. “I’m sorry that I basically climbed into your lap without asking.”

Garak squeezed the hand still holding his. “I am not.”

Julian breathed deeply. “I do need to go take a shower and go to the debriefing. Will—” He cut himself off, measuring his words. “Will you stay, and walk me to the turbolift?”

Garak smiled, sadness and delight dancing together in his eyes. “Even to Ops, should you wish it,” he said.

A small grin flashed over Julian’s face as he pulled his trousers the rest of the way off, seemingly unconcerned about being naked in front of Garak. “Perhaps we’ll save that kind of excitement for another day,” he said. “I’d hate to see Miles’ reaction to you when he was expecting to see only me." He heaved himself to his feet and went into the bathroom. When he heard the shower click on, Garak pushed himself up, sighing at the cracking of his much older joints, and clenched tightly the memory of the warm body curled into him in panic and, perhaps, a little bit of faith.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know how I feel about whether Garak would actually allow himself to cry--I think he's perfectly capable of it, but I imagine he's stuffed that way the hell down into himself. He's pretty strung out at this point, though, and even his defenses are cracking.
> 
> Also, a large part of the feeling of the Julian/Garak scene has roots in a fantastic line from the Johnlock fic [Cooperative Principle](https://archiveofourown.org/works/488939/chapters/852994) by bendingsignpost: “John is far from offended, likely due to the unabashed nudity. The body before him is a statement of trust, not a demand of sexuality. Sherlock is long and pale, vulnerable in every inch.” It's a beautiful statement and, I think, very applicable to where Julian literally and figuratively stands here.


	16. Chapter 16

“Have you moved at all in the last fifteen minutes?” asked Julian as he walked back into his room to find Garak sitting on the bed, absently smoothing the sheets with one hand.

“I did get off the floor,” Garak pointed out. His eyes wandered over the long lines of Julian’s body, only partly interrupted by the towel around his waist. The cuts and burns visible on his shoulders made Garak want to hold the man tightly enough that he could no longer wander off into mirror universes that hurt him—but then, his own universe hadn’t been any kinder.

"Hey," said Julian softly, watching Garak’s eyes dart across him. “I’ll be okay.”

Garak’s hand twitched on the blankets.

Julian sighed and walked deliberately over to Garak, standing just in between his knees, and ran a hand through Garak’s hair. Garak went stone still.

“Yes,” whispered Julian as he leaned down to kiss the top of Garak’s head, and Garak enclosed the man in a vice grip, burying his head in Julian’s abdomen. The pair stayed for a moment, Julian running his fingers through Garak’s hair as Garak tasted the clean scent of him with his _so’c_.

“I have to go meet the commander,” Julian said, breaking the peaceful silence. “But you and I aren’t done yet. Right?” He pulled back against Garak’s arms and Garak let him go, looking up the long bronze line of his chest to meet Julian’s eyes. Garak nodded and Julian bent, hesitatingly, to rest his forehead against Garak’s _ChUfa_. Garak drank in the pressure, the heat, the _there-ness_ of Julian, a living and breathing Julian, and only just managed not to fall forward when Julian pulled away to put on a fresh uniform.

The walk to the turbolift from Julian’s quarters was quiet, but Garak watched Julian’s anxiety level increase as they walked. The body became more rigid, the movement more purposeful and determined. When they were standing at the door, Julian turned back. 

“Thank you for walking with me,” he said.

“Do you want me to ride up with you?” Garak asked.

Julian ducked his head. “I told you, having you come to Ops would not be altogether kind to the crew—and it would make you very, very visibly attached to me.”

Garak squelched the observation that the entire senior staff knew about them at this point, as he did appreciate Julian’s attempt to respect his privacy. “I would not get off the lift,” said Garak, “but if you do not wish for the company, I will respect that.”

With a half-smile, Julian reached up and lightly stroked Garak’s eyeridge. Tension thrummed in his fingertips, belying the soothing gesture. “I very much wish for your company, Elim,” he said, “but I think I need to face this one on my own terms. Will you be in your shop for a while? I—I’d like to come by when I get out of the debriefing and…I don’t know, maybe we could have dinner.”

It felt like so much, too much after the weeks of separation, but Garak nodded anyway. Where Julian Bashir was concerned, all his understandings about the danger of sentiment and the necessity for distance flew right out the airlock, as much as he tried to deny it.

“I’m glad,” said Julian, grinning his blinding, whole-face grin for a moment. Garak had not seen that grin for weeks, had almost forgotten that grin, fell for that grin all over again in the heady mix of realization that Julian was well enough for it and that the prospect of time with Garak had caused it. He felt absurdly breathless all of a sudden.

“I’ll come see you when I can,” said Julian, stepping into the lift, and Garak could not find any answer as he watched the officer rise away with the grin fading from his face.

***

“Hello, Julian!” said Jadzia, the first to notice Julian’s arrival at Ops as he stepped from the lift. She left her station to come over to him, delight radiating from her, but paused abruptly when she stood in front of him. “May I hug you?” she asked, and Julian’s grin returned as he swept her close to him.

“Thank you for asking,” he whispered into her shoulder. She held him tighter in response.

“Well,” he heard Miles say, and disengaged himself from Jadzia. “Welcome back. Glad you made it.” Miles stuck out a hand and, still grinning, Julian shook it, hearing the Irishman’s relief and affection in the short phrases.

A few of the other people in Ops waved or shook hands with Julian, celebrating his return, before Jadzia gently nudged him on the shoulder. “Gotta go sometime,” she said. “Unless you came here for something else.”

Julian nodded at her, breathing through the knots in his stomach. Jadzia slipped her hand into his, briefly, and squeezed. He looked gratefully at her and then at Miles, who gave him a short nod of encouragement, before letting go and walking up to Sisko’s office.

“Come in,” clipped Sisko in response to the chime. “Dr. Bashir,” he said warmly as the lieutenant entered. “Have a seat.”

Julian lowered himself into the chair across from Sisko, sitting on the edge and trying not to wring his hands in his lap. The pair sat in silence for a moment, neither quite knowing what to say.

“Garak came over just now,” Julian blurted into the silence, then winced. “I—I don’t know why you needed to know that, sir.”

Sisko smiled. “I don’t, either, but now I know it. I hope the visit was helpful.”

Julian relaxed the smallest bit. “It was. Commander, it—the mirror universe—everything was so _wrong_ there.” He looked up, meeting Sisko’s eyes, his own full of sorrow. “Garak was there, but it wasn’t Garak—and you were there, but it certainly wasn’t you. About the only good thing was that…” He swallowed, breathing deeply. “Was that I didn’t run into a mirror Dukat.”

Nodding, Sisko let go of the fear he’d been holding since he’d understood where Kira and Bashir had gone.

“Which wasn’t much, as good things go,” said Julian, “but it’s something.”

“It is indeed,” said Sisko.

“You’ll probably want me to step things back up with Telnorri, won’t you?” The hint of an old resignation crept across Julian’s tired face.

“I want you to do what is helpful to you,” said Sisko. “You were still seeing him regularly anyway, correct?”

Julian nodded.

“I see no reason why you should alter what was working for you. And I trust you to gauge how this experience has impacted you.”

Julian nodded again, gratitude smoothing out some of the tension in him.

The door chimed and Sisko waved acknowledgement. “Have you anything else you would like to ask, or to tell me, before I let in Major Kira?”

“Actually, sir, she—she knows. I mean, about—we talked about it, a bit. But thank you, for letting me keep that private.”

Sisko’s surprise was only tempered by his curiosity. Bashir and Kira were in no way close; how had _that_ topic come up? And how had Bashir felt comfortable enough telling her? Perhaps he was healing after all, to be a little closer to his old and chatty self. Sisko chided himself on the flippant judgment as he opened the doors for Major Kira; whether Bashir was healing or not, he would never quite be his old self. Sisko knew that in his bones.

“Commander,” said Kira, taking the seat next to Bashir. “Julian,” she said quietly, nodding to the doctor. Bashir half-smiled back, surprisingly glad to see Kira back in her uniform.

"So," began Sisko, "what happened?"

***

“Lieutenant,” said Miles, watching Major Kira enter Commander Sisko’s office.

“Hmm?” answered Jadzia, her eyes still on her screen as she finished typing.

“When Julian came in.”

Jadzia, task complete, looked up at Miles. “Yes?”

“You—you asked if you could hug him.”

When there was nothing further, Jadzia nodded.

“Why?”

Jadzia opened her mouth, closed it, and pondered for a moment. “I think it’s best to let people know that they have an option not to be bombarded, especially physically, especially when they’ve just come back from a difficult mission.”

“Ah.” O’Brien considered. “It’s just—you’re usually pretty enthusiastic, and Julian likes that about you.”

Jadzia hid her smile as she looked down at her console again. “I think he likes that my enthusiasm doesn’t have to override his needs,” she said.

“Finicky systems need a gentler touch,” O’Brien said to himself, and Jadzia quirked an eyebrow at the seeming non sequitur. O’Brien waved a hand at her unspoken question and the two looked briefly at the doors of Sisko’s office, wondering what else their friends had experienced out beyond the wormhole.

***

“But the Klingons didn’t know about the wormhole?” Sisko asked Kira and Bashir, his dark eyes troubled.

“Not at all,” responded Kira, “and I’m glad of it, not least because they couldn’t follow us through back to our universe.”

“Well,” said Sisko. He tossed his baseball to his other hand and leaned back in his chair. “Well. That is quite an adventure.”

“I’d hardly call it an ‘adventure,’” said Kira, “but it was something.”

“This ‘intendant’—she wants to come here?”

Kira shook her head. “Not really. She—she just wants to rule whatever, I think, and…well, and she wants, um, me.”

“You mentioned her fascination with you.”

“It’s just absolute narcissism, that’s all,” said Kira heatedly, but neither Bashir nor Sisko missed the tension that had built in her body through the telling of the story, nor the way she shuddered slightly when talking about her counterpart’s actions. Bashir reached over and squeezed her fingers gently; Kira looked at him, surprised, but briefly squeezed back before pulling away.

“I’m sorry she used me against you,” said Julian. “I can’t imagine how disorienting it would be to face a version of myself, let alone one who so clearly didn’t match my values, and to have to defend someone against him.”

“So you didn’t meet yourself?” asked Sisko.

“No,” said Julian, turning back to the commander. “I imagine I exist somewhere, but not on that station. I wonder—well, I can only hope that the mirror Bashir is free, somehow.”

Sisko considered, trying to process the idea of another version of him—a pet of the mirror Kira, no less, a detail Bashir and Kira had not fleshed out but that he had heard in between the lines. This mirror universe sounded like an unpleasant place indeed, and he did not look forward to telling Starfleet that the actions of the revered Captain Kirk had had such deleterious effects.

“I will need formal reports from both of you by 1600 tomorrow,” Sisko said. “I would suggest both of you take tomorrow off except for writing those reports.”

“Suggest or order?” asked Kira.

Sisko sighed. “Strongly suggest?”

Kira looked at him.

“I won’t order you, but I do suggest in a way that stops just short of it,” said Sisko, “and I encourage you both to talk to Telnorri.”

Kira rolled her eyes. “Thank you, Commander, but I don’t—”

“Nerys,” interrupted Julian, and Sisko was floored that Kira stopped and looked at him. “Meeting yourself like that—well, not really you, but someone who is a mirror to you—must have been difficult. I…I think Telnorri could help.”

Kira stared at him a moment and Julian flushed under her gaze. “I—will keep that in mind,” Kira said slowly.

“Just to consider it,” mumbled Julian at his lap.

Kira reached over, hesitantly, and lightly touched Julian’s hands. “I’ll consider it,” she said when he looked up, and Julian nodded.

 _Would wonders never cease_ , thought Sisko to himself, watching the exchange. “If there’s nothing else,” he said to the pair, “I highly recommend getting some sleep. It has been a long few days for you both. And both of you be sure to check in with the infirmary to be cleared for duty.”

Kira flippantly agreed, but Bashir did not answer. Sisko decided not to press the matter; telling the doctor his own medical business was not a conversation he wanted right now. He needed to process all that he had heard; there would be enough to do in his own job.

“Dismissed,” Sisko said, and the pair stood and left. Sisko turned his chair to stare out the viewport, wondering at the universe on the other side of his own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So the beginning of this chapter is my favorite scene in this whole book and I'm excited, Reader, that you've made it here to read it. I can't draw for shit, but if anyone wants to do fanart of that moment of Julian standing in a towel and wrapping Garak into him while kissing him on the top of the head, I would be delighted.
> 
> Also, a note as we begin to contemplate coming out of quarantine: I've seen a ton of memes circulating about how people are going to tackle-hug folks when they see each other again and I appreciate the enthusiasm. I, too, will be very glad to see my IRL friends. But please do remember that some people haven't had any physical contact at all during this, some people may not have been comfortable with it beforehand, etc. Be like Jadzia: double-check before hugs or other physical forms of affection. It is a gift to the person being asked, I promise. To the other side, you have all the permission to tell friends you don't want to be tackle-hugged even if you, also, are excited to see people. [here ends the PSA thanks y'all it's important]


	17. Chapter 17

Bashir stopped to talk with O’Brien out at his console, marveling at the subtle similarities between his quiet friend and the hesitant mirror version.

“Glad you brought the ship back in one piece,” said O’Brien as Bashir lingered next to him.

Julian smiled. “I’d hate to lose another runabout,” he said, “and I don’t even want to think about giving that particular technology to our mirror counterparts.”

“Mirror? You—hang on, you were in the mirror universe?”

“We were. I don’t recommend it.” Julian paused, remembering his words to the mirror O’Brien that he was already dead. “You know, you saved me.”

“I did?” answered O’Brien.

“Well, not _you_ you. But the mirror you. He was also really good with machinery. Sisko—the mirror Sisko—called him Smiley.”

O’Brien’s face contorted at the thought. “Wouldn’t be my first nickname,” he said, “but certainly wouldn’t be my favorite. Was he particularly cheerful, this other O’Brien?”

“No, not really,” said Julian. 

“Huh,” said O’Brien. The pair stood in contemplation for a moment stretching to the front edge of awkwardness.

“Well,” said O’Brien, and Julian pushed himself off the console on which he’d been leaning.

“Right,” he said. “I’d—I’d better be on my way.”

“A pint later this week?” asked O’Brien, and Julian’s heart sang.

“I’d like that,” Julian said, glad to have a friend in two universes. He turned toward the lift and saw Kira standing next to Jadzia, chatting quietly. He barely saw—or thought he saw?—Jadzia brush her hand against Kira’s, and his brain took off with whether their friendship was, like his and Garak’s, taking on a new dimension. 

_Garak_. The thought of dinner with him, the beginnings of the restoration of their relationship, brought a grin to Julian’s face. He was very much looking forward to simply talking with the old tailor; Julian had dearly missed their long and heated conversations. Kira stepped into the lift behind him and, still considering his own dinner ahead, Julian was able to keep his speculations to himself as he glimpsed Jadzia watching both of them thoughtfully while the lift descended.

***

“Garak?” Julian called at the entrance to the tailor’s seemingly empty shop.

“One moment,” he heard Garak call from the back. His voice was muffled and Julian smiled fondly at the thought that it was likely full of pins from some hemming job or other. The gentleness of Garak’s profession—however much of a façade it may be—comforted Julian, smoothing the harsh edges of the uniformed soldier on the other side of the mirror. He wandered the shop, trailing his hand across some of the wispier fabrics, feeling them slide across his fingers. He might have no sense for color—or so Garak kept telling him—but Julian loved the textures of different pieces.

“I trust the meeting went well?” said Garak as he appeared with an armful of clothing.

“As well as can be expected, I suppose,” answered Julian, crossing to the table where Garak was refolding the stack. “Commander Sisko is not at all pleased about us being in the mirror universe, or about what happened with Kirk, but he was pretty supportive of what we did to get ourselves back. He told both Kira and me that we should take tomorrow off.”

“Will you?” asked Garak, somehow managing to look intently at Julian without actually looking at him.

Julian fidgeted with the corner of one of the shirts. “I don’t know. I understand why he suggested it, but—I mean, I was just getting back into a rhythm of being back in the infirmary.”

Garak nodded. “A place which, I take it, you haven’t yet visited since your return.”

Julian rolled his eyes. “I have no major injuries, and the smaller ones I can fix with my kit later.”

“And have none of it on file, nor a second opinion.”

“I _am_ a doctor, Garak,” said Julian with some heat.

“Granted,” replied Garak smoothly. “One who has injuries, however superficial, and one who is rather compromised on the subject of his own health.”

“Now hang on,” Julian protested, “I don’t—”

“Want them to see you?” Garak set down the fabrics, looking Julian full in the eye. “What do you fear them finding?”

“I don’t _fear_ them finding anything,” Julian shot back. “I just don’t need to go to the infirmary.”

“And if Chief O’Brien had come back from being lost on a mission protesting that he was fine, would you accept it?"

“You’re one to talk,” countered Julian, “as the man who nearly _died_ without seeking any kind of medical aid.”

“And that was something you found you wished to emulate, then?”

Julian smacked the table in frustration. “Damn it, Garak, you know that’s not what this is.”

Garak stepped out from behind the counter, standing next to Julian, his tone far softer. “Doctor, I do not know what ‘this’ is, or what it is not. I only know that you would be the first to have a returned officer report to you after such a mission and that you yourself are refusing to do so. There is nothing for them to find from—from before, correct?”

Julian flushed and looked away, twisting his hands awkwardly in front of him. “No,” he said, his voice tight. A silence stretched between them, dense and cumbersome. “But the exam,” he said after a while, addressing the floor, “the kind of check-up they should do will require—touch, and to heal the cuts and lacerations I’ll have to—to take off my uniform.” The last phrase was so soft Garak almost missed it, so heavy that it crushed his heart beneath it.

Hesitantly, Garak reached out and laid one grey finger on Julian’s writhing hands. They stilled, and Julian turned one over to take Garak’s hand in his, fingers curled around each other’s palms.

“I don’t…I don’t want them to see that I’m not fully well, yet,” whispered Julian. “I’m their CMO, after all.”

“But not the Emissary,” Garak said, and Julian chuckled. “Would it be useful to wait until the morning, after you’ve had dinner and slept a while?”

There was a pause while Julian pondered, absently running his thumb over Garak’s knuckles. “That would be easier if I took tomorrow off,” he said.

Garak said nothing.

“Sneaky,” accused Julian with a half-smile, and Garak squeezed his hand.

“Practical,” Garak amended.

Julian sighed. “I suppose,” he said. “Would you—would you still be willing to have that dinner with me?”

Garak’s heart constricted in a sharp and painful joy. “I could be persuaded,” he allowed.

“Might—might I invite myself to your place? I don’t think I want to be at Quark’s tonight.”

“But of course,” said Garak. “Let me relocate these commissions and we shall be on our way. Have you any particular meal in mind?”

***

The dinner was relaxed, comfortable, and familiar, the conversation flowing between their recent readings and bits and pieces of Julian’s experience in the other universe. Garak could tell that there was much Julian was not yet explaining, especially around this other version of himself that sat uncomfortably close to who Garak could have been, but Garak knew better than to push Julian on the details. They would come, eventually; the man was abysmal at keeping secrets, especially from Garak. For now, he was content to simply be with Julian, to spar and parry and goad and chide, watching Julian’s hazel eyes flash with indignation and his mouth curve in delight. It felt natural, and the pair chatted long into the evening before Julian could not stop an errant yawn.

“My apologies, Garak,” Julian said. “I think it is far past my bedtime.”

“Indeed,” Garak responded, standing and clearing away their dishes. “Shall I walk you to your quarters?”

Julian scratched at something invisible on the table. “Elim, may I—may I just crash on your couch?”

Garak set the plates carefully in the recycler. 

“It’s just—I don’t—I mean, being alone doesn’t…doesn’t seem like something helpful, right now,” stumbled Julian.

Garak did not want Julian on his couch—he wanted Julian in his bed, the golden limbs entangled with his, that human warmth pooling through him like sunlight. But neither did he want Julian to be alone with his fear and his memories. “Of course,” he said, keeping his tone level.

“Are you sure?” Julian asked.

“My dear doctor, I quite understand. Let me fix up the couch properly for you.” Garak went to gather blankets and sheets. 

“I—if it’s okay with you, I’ll also make myself a hypospray to sleep.”

Garak straightened from putting together a nest on the sofa. “Had you managed to stop taking them before you left?”

Julian grimaced. “Mostly,” he said. “They weren’t necessary every night. I don’t want to take the chance tonight, though; that wonderful performance this afternoon makes me entirely certain that letting my brain go without guardrails would ensure neither of us gets any sleep.”

In the back of Garak’s mind, multiple moments of Julian trapped in his nightmares tumbled over each other. No, it would not do to add to that collection. Garak folded in the last sheet corner while Julian replicated what he needed.

“You certainly can’t sleep in your uniform,” Garak fussed as Julian joined him by the makeshift bed.

“Even though you tell me all the time it’s basically pajamas?” answered Julian.

“Even though,” sniffed Garak. He went into his room and returned with a set of clothing.

“You could have replicated—” Julian began, but cut himself off abruptly when Garak glared at him. “Right. Tailor. Sorry.” He took the pajamas from Garak. “Hey, these aren’t yours.”

Garak blinked. “Of course not,” he said. “My clothing would not fit you at all. They are yours.”

The pair stood quietly for a moment, remembering a life in which Julian stayed over often enough to have left a pair of pajamas behind while he dashed off to an early shift. Both of them knew the pajamas had spent as much time on the floor as on Julian’s body; neither knew how to broach that past in the fragile present.

“Thank you,” Julian said at last. “I—I’ll just go change, then.” He headed toward the bathroom and Garak felt far more tired than even the late hour warranted. He sank more than sat down on the sofa, the ease of the conversation over dinner bleeding out of the room as the space between them threatened to widen once more.

“There,” announced Julian after some time, coming to stand in front of Garak and show off the nightwear. “No more uniform.”

“Did you at least fold it rather than flinging it onto whatever didn’t move quickly enough?”

Julian stuck out his tongue at Garak and the tension loosened, lessened, faded in their banter. “Not that you care what happens to my uniform, but yes, I did fold it so that I have something to wear to the—to the infirmary tomorrow…” His shoulders bowed under the weight of that reality.

“Come, Julian,” said Garak, patting the bed. “Tomorrow shall be tomorrow. Do you want me to go in with you?”

“It’s highly irregular,” said Julian, climbing under the covers and sliding his feet around where Garak was sitting.

It wasn’t a _no_ , but Garak did not push the matter. “Then I shall walk you there and wait for you,” he offered.

“I—I would like that,” said Julian. He lifted the hypospray to his neck, wincing slightly at the quiet hiss of it. “Thank you, Elim.” Julian reached out a hand to Garak and pulled him closer when he took it, gently cradling Garak’s arm against his bony chest. The angle was awkward and Garak chanced leaning against Julian’s ribcage to accommodate it. Julian smiled at him, a sleepy and encouraging smile, and Garak let most of his weight rest against the slighter man, laying his head on Julian’s shoulder as the human’s breathing slowed, slowed, and his eyes dropped closed. Garak waited a quarter hour, watching Julian sleep, the thick lashes dark against the beautiful face, before unwinding himself and standing. Unable to stop himself, he brushed aside a piece of Julian’s hair and kissed him, feather-soft, on the forehead where the _ChUfa_ would be before retreating to his bedroom for the sleepless vigil he knew he would keep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A wee bit of feel-good fluff, huzzah! I promise, the tone is lighter (for the most part) from here on out. There will even be lovely consensual sexy times.
> 
> Also, yes, I have a page-long outline for the KiraDax tale that seems to have appeared while writing this, so keep an eye out. I have two other stories to finish first and then will begin that one and will, apparently, not stop writing fanfiction for some years yet.


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Consensual sexy times! I did promise we'd get there, but for any who aren't super keen on explicit scenes, I just wanted to warn you there is one at the end of the chapter.

“I was wondering when I’d see you,” said Nurse Jabara when Julian arrived at the infirmary the following morning. “And does your shadow want to come along?”

Garak, having delivered Julian to the infirmary, had hovered behind to ensure all was well.

“Uh,” stammered Julian. He could not read Jabara’s expression but knew better than to hope for a blessing on a Cardassian from a Bajoran. 

“His ‘shadow’ has a shop to open,” said Garak with a touch of chill. 

Julian stopped himself from rolling his eyes, barely. “But my _friend_ would be welcome in the infirmary should he choose to come, am I correct?” He put on his best CMO tone, hoping that Jabara would think Julian was chiding her on prejudice rather than hiding his relationship.

Fortunately for him, she did. “The infirmary is open to all,” Jabara responded, stiffly apologetic.

“I’m glad to hear it,” said Julian. “Now, I imagine Commander Sisko has informed you that I am not to resume my duties until I’ve gone through the scan and dermal regeneration and have reported details of any injuries." Jabara nodded. “Then let’s get to it.” Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Garak turn to go to his shop. “E—Garak,” he said, correcting himself slightly too late. He saw Jabara’s eyebrow raise and Garak’s body tense and cursed the slip. “I—Jabara, would you go ahead and set out all the instruments and I’ll be there in a moment?”

A mix of curiosity, amusement, confusion, and quite possibly disgust flashed over her features before she nodded and headed toward one of the med bays.

Julian sighed. “Well, that could have gone better.”

“It could also have gone worse, Doctor,” said Garak, all professionalism.

“It could,” Julian agreed. “I don’t—look, there’s no way to have you stay with me that wouldn’t make it terrifically awkward for you—”

“But would it be of comfort to you?”

Julian opened his mouth, said nothing, closed it. He reached out a hand but stopped before tracing the ridge down Garak’s jawline, curling his fingers back in on themselves. “However did I luck out to have someone like you?” he said.

Garak raised his eyeridges in question.

“You, you who hate the infirmary, you who would be horrified to let a Bajoran nurse know anything about you, you who live in shadow and mystery, you would be willing to let me drag you into a closed room in said infirmary and all but parade you about as my—my boyfriend, just to comfort me.”

Garak scoffed. “I do not ‘live in shadow and mystery.’”

Julian laughed. “Have it your way, then. My point stands.”

Garak’s jaw tightened, a twitch, a grimace. “It is not ‘just,’ my dear doctor,” he said. “I—you have faced enough…alone.”

“Garak, I swear that if we weren’t in full view of the Promenade I would kiss you right now.” 

In answer, Garak stepped forward, keeping direct eye contact with Julian as he raised a hand to the ridgeless cheekbone, running his thumb over it in the barest touch and finally closing his eyes as he kissed Julian, feather-light, on the lips.

Julian followed him as Garak pulled away, savoring the surprise of it, the gift of it, not even caring about the sharp intake of breath from Jabara as she walked back out to wonder why he was taking so long.

***

It had been a week. To Julian it felt like a month, his mind full of the daily therapy sessions with Telnorri to which Garak faithfully escorted him, of the two lunch dates and two dinners he and Garak had had together, of the second time he had fallen asleep on Garak’s couch with the Cardassian’s grey hand wrapped in his. They had not kissed again, had not gone any further together. It felt somewhat like dating as a teenager, the sweet heat uncertain and magnetic between them as they brushed fingers and smiled flirtingly at each other. 

It had been a week. And Julian was terrified of changing anything.

“I’m glad Telnorri has been so helpful for you,” commented Jadzia as they sat together at the Replimat. She was becoming a semi-regular lunch partner when he was not with Garak; even Kira had sat down for a cup of raktajino with him before his shift two days prior. Julian felt settled in a way he never had before, and with his slow return to pub nights with O’Brien promising to become regular occurrences, he allowed himself to realize that he had friends—plural.

It was a very strange realization. Telnorri found it encouraging. Julian was unsure.

“He has,” Julian answered, toying with his salad.

“And it seems that you’re finding yourself a routine, getting out and about,” Jadzia continued.

“I am,” Julian answered.

“So what’s wrong?”

“Wrong?” Julian looked up at her; she was leaning forward, expectant, her own plate of _Larish_ pie forgotten. “What do you mean, what’s wrong? Those are all good things.”

“Those _are_ all good things,” Jadzia agreed. “But you’re still tense, so what else is going on?”

Julian was never sure whether it was Dax’s multiple lives that made Jadzia so good at reading others or whether he himself was simply easy to read; Garak would say both, probably, but then Garak was also a mix of talent and experience in that arena. “I—I just…I mean, Garak and I…we’re doing a lot better, and we’ve had some really important conversations….”

“And?”

“And, well, I’m wondering…” Julian blushed.

“Whether to sleep with him?” Jadzia’s question was heartbreakingly gentle and Julian found himself angry at her for it.

“I mean, I’m allowed to take time to figure that out, right?” he said hotly. “It’s not like he’s going anywhere else to get tail on the station.”

“Julian.” Jadzia reached a hand across the table. He didn’t take it and crossed his arms over his chest instead. She left her hand there, palm up, open. “You _are_ allowed to take time.”

“But it’s been almost a month and a half, right? Time to get over myself.”

“No,” Jadzia shook her head. “There is no ‘getting over yourself’ in this, Julian. Have you talked to Telnorri about this?”

Julian looked away, out into the Promenade. “Briefly.”

“And what did he say?”

“That it’s up to me on my timeframe.”

“He’s right.” Jadzia leaned back, pulling her hand with her. “There is no formal moment where you _have_ to go back to being intimate, Julian.”

Julian tightened his arms around his chest, hugging his fear to him. “What—what if he gets tired of waiting?” he asked.

“Oh, Julian,” said Jadzia, “he won’t.”

“How do you know?” Julian retorted, finally looking at her.

“Have you seen the way he looks at you?”

“Yeah, like he wants to eat me.”

“Well, that too,” said Jadzia with a laugh, “but no, more than that.”

Julian shook his head.

“He loves you, Julian. He looks at you like he loves you, and people who love people wait for them to be ready and don’t get mad at them for needing time and space.” 

Julian remembered a waking, an argument, a half-slip of the tongue he had not made Garak finish, “love” turned to “value.” He felt the shock of it again, realizing that it didn’t feel as unexpected now.

“You know that he loves you, don’t you?” Jadzia asked.

“I—I might,” Julian said.

“And that doesn’t _fix_ anything, and it doesn’t mean you should stop going to Telnorri, and it doesn’t mean that you and I change, but it does mean that you’re allowed to wait as long as you need to without worrying that he’ll go off to—how did you put it? ‘Get tail’ elsewhere.”

Julian rolled his eyes at Jadzia’s smile before unwinding his arms and reaching out his own hand. Jadzia took it in hers, squeezing slightly.

“Thank you, my friend,” said Julian softly.

“Always,” said Jadzia. “Because I love you, too—but stick with Garak for the intimacy, okay?”

Julian laughed. “Will do,” he said, and Jadzia grinned in delight.

***

Julian pondered the rest of the day, running things over in the back of his mind through the coughs and sprains and one case of false labor that occupied him. By the time he finished his shift and went home to change, he knew that he wanted more and was fairly certain just how much more he could do. Smiling to himself, he put on a loose shirt and trousers Garak had talked him into buying, admiring the way the fabric slid forward _just so_ on the collarbones Garak loved to trace. When he met Garak at Quark’s, he did not miss the way the tailor’s eyes traveled down the neckline, assessing, hungering. Garak, ever the gentleman, told him he was looking lovely this evening, and Julian complimented the colors of Garak’s outfit even though he knew Garak felt him hopeless about color schemes. The pair had a wonderful dinner, seated on the second level above the dabo wheel as the bar swung into life around them. Julian was pleased to find that he did not fear the crowds; true, he was as aware of everyone around them and all exits as he imagined Garak was, but just being there was…fun.

He wondered why “fun” was such a foreign concept to him, simple and complicated all at once.

“You seem quite—content this evening, my dear,” commented Garak over the remnants of dessert.

“I—I’ve been doing some thinking,” Julian replied, and Garak paused, his body subtly tensing at the possible repercussions. Julian noticed it, wondered at it, sorrowed briefly that Garak was so ready for bad news. “I’m ready for; well, I want—I want more. Of this. Of us. Might—might we go to your quarters, Elim?”

Garak studied him a moment, noting again the neckline of Julian’s shirt, the relaxed set of his shoulders. “Are you sure?”

“Quite,” said Julian. 

“Then shall we?” Garak stood and held out a hand to Julian, who took it as he rose and held on, trailing Garak behind him down the stairs. The openness of their connection felt somehow illicit, edgy, and he drank in the surprise of Quark as the pair passed the bar out into the Promenade. They kissed in the turbolift, nervous, hesitant, reminding each other of the taste of their lips, the unasked question of tongues and teeth. The lift stopped on the habitat ring and Julian led the way, pulling Garak by the hand to Garak’s quarters, the path memorized deep in his feet. They fell through the doorway, all propriety forgotten, hands roaming, until Garak reached under Julian’s shirt, pushing up against Julian’s ribs—

“Stop,” gasped Julian against Garak’s lips, pushing him away. Garak pulled his hands back and rested them on Julian’s wrists against his own shoulders, breath haggard. The pair exhaled, bringing their heart rates back down. “I’m sorry,” said Julian, “I thought…”

“Julian,” answered Garak, pulling away from Julian’s hands and smoothing his hair back in place, “you do not need to apologize.”

“Wait, I—I’m not—I don’t want this to stop totally,” protested Julian as Garak stepped past him. “I just need us to slow down. Is that—can we do that?”

Garak closed his eyes, bolting down the _want_ burning underneath his skin. He desired rough, fast, angry; he craved reclamation, taking this body of soft gold back, remapping it so that he could forget the scratches and cuts, the blood like _utoxa_ stripes on Julian’s arms and legs. But he knew that claiming was not what was needed; _taking_ was exactly what made Julian shake slightly, his hazel eyes pleading that Garak understand, that Garak _give_.

By the guls, had he ever been able to say no to those eyes?

“We can do that, Julian,” Garak said, tracing one light finger down Julian’s jaw. Julian leaned his head into Garak’s hand, closing his eyes, for a heartbeat, two. “What do you want?”

Julian opened his eyes. “I want…I want to remind myself of you.”

Garak tilted his head in confusion.

“Trust me?” said Julian, holding out a hand as he took a step toward Garak’s bedroom, and Garak knew Julian did not ask him of all creatures lightly. He also knew that Julian was asking its opposite—was Garak himself trustworthy? Could Julian have faith in him?

He reached out and took Julian’s hand, warmth shimmering down every scale at the brilliant grin that lit up Julian’s face as the human led him toward his own room. Once there, Julian kissed him again, soft, light, trembling. He pulled off Garak’s shirts, one layer at a time, fingers tracing every newly-exposed ridge, every scar, every scale, and Garak realized _Julian_ was doing the reclaiming, the remapping, erasing the feel of Dukat from his own fingertips.

It was heartbreaking, overwhelming, beautiful, horrible.

Garak caught hold of Julian’s hands when he reached for Garak’s trousers. “Must you stay clothed?” he asked. _Must I be wanted only to replace him?_

Julian looked Garak in the eye, taken aback again at the brilliant shade of blue in the grey ridges flushed dark by his own ministrations. The memory of those eyes on him as he sat shirtless in the infirmary, shivering with fear and cold, those eyes that held him as tightly as an embrace, made him nod in understanding. “But let me do it,” Julian said, stepping back from Garak.

Obediently, Garak kept his hands to his sides. Julian pulled his overshirt over his head, half-smiling at Garak as he draped it over a chair rather than letting it fall to the floor. Garak tipped his head in amused acknowledgement. Julian took a deep breath and unhooked his trousers, pulling them off quickly like a bandage, shutting his eyes for a moment at the sensation of standing in his tank top and underwear in front of Garak, far too aware of the air caressing his bare skin.

“Julian,” said Garak softly, and Julian looked at him again. “Do not go further than you are able.”

Julian nodded. “But I don’t want you to feel—mismatched.”

“The disparity is far less now,” replied Garak as he slid off his own trousers and underwear. Garak was far from being an exhibitionist, even with Julian, and Julian understood the gift of Garak standing naked in front of him.

“I will make it up to you,” said Julian, pushing one finger against the top edge of Garak’s _ChUla_ to encourage him to walk backward to the bed. Garak complied, letting himself fall on the mattress, and Julian climbed on top of him. He leaned in, smoothing his hands down Garak’s neck ridges, squeezing slightly as he licked his way between Garak’s lips, and Garak bucked beneath him. He raised his hands to Julian’s sides but stiffened, laying them flat on the bed instead, and Julian sat up. “What’s wrong?” Julian asked.

Garak marveled at the human sitting astride him, golden and lovely, and swallowed the desire to devour him whole. “I do not—I do not know whether…” He trailed off, himself unsure of what he wanted to say, of what he didn’t know.

Julian sighed and nodded, and Garak resigned himself to that being the end of it. “Thank you for wanting to give me space, Elim,” said Julian instead, idly tracing one finger down Garak’s shoulder, “but trust me. I’m relearning this, too, but oh, by every god I’ve ever heard of I do still want you. I can’t—I can’t do as much as I would like, not yet.” He huffed in frustration, his fingers curling on Garak’s chest, and Garak reached up to take the tense hand in his own. Julian smiled sadly. “I will tell you as much as I can about what’s going on with me, and whether I need to stop—unless…” Hesitation straightened his spine and he pulled his hand out of Garak’s. “Unless this isn’t what _you_ want.”

It was all Garak could do not to burst out laughing. “My beautiful, kind, wondrous Julian,” he said, sliding his hands up Julian’s thighs and resting his fingertips right at the edges of his boxers, his thumbs tracing the edges of the fabric and sending goosebumps across Julian’s skin, “I have never stopped wanting this.”

Julian grinned in the most bashful way and Garak felt his heart stutter at the sight. He reached up to Julian’s face and Julian bent to accommodate, Garak cradling him gently between his hands, pulling Julian in to kiss him again. The first was soft; an acknowledgement, an apology, a promise. Garak’s hands twined into Julian’s hair as the kisses became stronger, possessive, hungry, and Garak kissed him breathless, kissed him until the only person either of them could ever taste was each other. Julian leaned into the kisses, one hand holding him steady above Garak and the other wandering down Garak’s chest, tracing his _ChUla_ , following the scales down to the _ChUva_ and Garak felt like his skin was on fire from the heat of those human fingertips that had claimed him so many times. He arched into them as Julian slid his hand over the slit beneath the _ChUva_.

“Elim,” murmured Julian against Garak’s lips, “I want—I want to…”

Garak pulled him away, tracing his thumbs over the Julian’s jawbone, trying to focus as Julian continued to stroke the lips of his _ajan_. “What do you want, Julian?”

“I’m not ready for…for sex, but I want to—I want to _touch_ you, I want to give you…” He flushed, his face growing even warmer under Garak’s palms. “Is it enough if I do this for you?”

“Julian,” Garak hummed into the space in between them, “you will always be enough.”

Tears gathered bright in Julian’s eyes and he swallowed, nodded, and Garak kissed the sharp curve of his cheekbones gently, remembering a handprint and nipping the outline of it away from his own mind. Julian closed his eyes, his fingers dipping into Garak briefly, longer, pulling his head away from Garak to nip down the shoulder ridges, to kiss the hollow of Garak’s throat, the softness against such a vulnerable space in deep contrast to the quickening pace of his hand rubbing the underside of Garak’s hidden _prUt_. Deftly, Julian rocked his hand into Garak, biting his way down Garak’s ridges, and Garak gasped at the stimulation, his body oversensitive from the months of no contact. Garak threaded his fingers through Julian’s hair, ran his other hand down the thin fabric of Julian’s shirt, grabbing a fistful of it as he everted into Julian’s waiting palm. 

“I have missed you in every way,” Julian whispered against Garak’s chest, and Garak lost the ability to reply as Julian slipped down his _prUt_ and twisted around the irllun, the intensity of it undoing Garak as he pushed wantonly into Julian’s grip, writhing with the desire for _more_ and _just this much_ , his answer of wanting to keep the beautiful and broken doctor with him always sitting dangerously on the end of his tongue. 

He swallowed the admission, swallowed the cry as Julian’s pace increased, short pulls and sliding fingers adding to the twisting rhythm, and Garak felt his mind shudder under the anger and hope and memory and sorrow and distance and need and love, bright and fierce. “ _Julian_ ,” he breathed, a declaration, a prayer, a claiming, a release as he gave up control for this night, his own hands raking down Julian’s shoulders and twisting in his undershirt as his body writhed under Julian’s. He felt the rain building within him and Julian quickened his pace again, licking his way down Garak’s _ChUla_ , kissing Garak’s jawridges, seemingly everywhere on Garak’s body, setting him aflame.

“ _Let go, Elim,_ ” Julian purred back, his shirt rubbing maddeningly against Garak’s stomach as he rocked against the scales, as he reached out with his free hand and twined his fingers through Garak’s, the grip almost crushingly strong—and Garak did, unspooling into those golden fingers and sliding into the languidness of release.

The pair panted against each other for a moment and Garak’s _prUt_ slid back within him. “It is beautiful when it’s yours,” Julian said, his head bowed into the curve of Garak’s shoulder, and Garak ached that he should ever know an eversion that was not beautiful.

“I am fortunate to have one who knows its value,” he responded, hooking a finger lightly under Julian’s jaw and tilting his head up to look at him. There were tear tracks down Julian’s face, his eyes still over-bright. Wordlessly, Garak brushed them away, pulling Julian up to kiss him once more, soft, thankful. Julian leaned his forehead against Garak’s _ChUfa_ , the most intimate of gestures, and they rested a moment, two.

“I’ll be right back,” Julian promised as he lifted away from Garak. In his absence, Garak contemplated the ceiling, storing this memory away deliberately, sealing it in his mind. Julian returned with a soft cloth, quietly cleaning Garak and wiping off his own hand. As he set aside the cloth he leaned back into Garak, snuggling up against him.

Garak realized he felt no answering hardness in Julian’s body. “My dear,” he said as Julian arranged Garak’s arm around himself, “are you--?”

“I am fine,” said Julian. “I—I don’t need anything, right now. This was for us both.” He skimmed a hand over Garak’s stomach, just barely brushing against the top of the _ChUva_. “Some—someday, soon.”

Garak kissed the top of Julian’s head. “Only when you are ready,” he said into Julian’s hair, and Julian tightened his arm around Garak’s midsection, squeezing him in acknowledgment and gratitude.

“May I stay with you tonight?” Julian asked, and Garak curled his arms tighter around him in response, kicking up the blankets over his own naked form as Julian curled into his chest, the pair melting into each other, sated and warm enough for now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An _utoxa_ is a flying creature from Cardassia Prime. Do I know whether it actually has stripes? I do not, but it does now.
> 
> Also, I am very aware that the term "sex" is not limited to penetrative intercourse, but I felt like Julian wouldn't be too interested in that level of clarification at this point, hence the "I'm not ready for" line. He's trying to draw boundaries that he hates, poor soul.


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still hanging out with the repercussions of the Mirror Universe, not least because I think that whole experience would really mess with Julian even in the regular universe without the added whump I've given him.

Garak was the first to wake—not unusual, but it was not his natural clock that brought him back to consciousness. Julian’s body, still encircled by his arms, had tensed into a ball, his breaths coming erratic and shallow.

“It wasn’t—it wasn’t a joke,” Julian slurred, twitching his head.

Quickly, cautiously, Garak pulled his arm from underneath Julian’s slight frame.

“I don’t have—my name, my name is…” Julian began to twitch. “No, I didn’t; I don’t want—”

“Julian,” Garak said, hyperaware of his own nakedness as Julian shuddered with the nightmare.

“ _No_ ,” Julian moaned, and Garak put a hand on his shoulder, shaking him gently, “ _Julian_.” Julian began to thrash, kicking the blankets back, his hands clenching and unclenching.

“I’m not—I’m not from—no, _no_ , get _off_ —Garak, don’t--!”

Garak flinched at his own name—and then hoped with all his being that it was the Garak of the mirror universe. Julian’s brief allusions to his counterpart certainly sounded as cold as Garak himself once had been. Had his mirror self--? No. He could not bear the thought of any version of himself being able to harm Julian, especially in that way. “JULIAN,” he all-but-shouted, refusing to be helpless again. He remembered a conversation he and Julian had had at dinner several days prior, that touch was acceptable but entrapment was terrifying. Julian reached out in his sleep and Garak grabbed his hand, interlaced their fingers, held tightly in the way they had shared enough to mean something even to the human. “ _Julian Subatoi, wake up_ ,” Garak commanded, hearing the titanium of his own voice that had grounded the doctor once before.

Julian jerked awake with a stifled scream, his chest heaving, his eyes wild. He looked at his hand firmly clasped in Garak’s. “E—Elim?” he asked, following the arm up to Garak kneeling at his side.

“Julian,” Garak said, trying to keep the relief from flooding through his voice.

“I—oh, _Elim_.” Julian pulled himself up and wrapped around Garak’s midsection, sobbing against Garak’s ribs. Garak held him, bent over the shaking form and slightly rocking until Julian cried himself dry, murmuring soothing nothings into Julian’s shoulders while he gently stroked his back, remembering this same position at another time, with other tears. After a while, Julian cleared his throat and pulled back, pushing the heels of his hands across his eyes. “I’m sorry, Elim; that must have been a hell of a way to wake up.”

“Fortunately, I am a light sleeper,” Garak replied.

Julian half-chuckled. “It—I—that was…” He trailed off, still twisted up in the nightmare.

“Julian,” said Garak, tapping him on the knee, and Julian looked at him, face tearstained and hair going in every direction. “Are you fully awake now?”

Julian nodded, taking a deep and shaky breath.

“Then I will get dressed and make breakfast while you take a shower and then we can talk about it—if you wish.”

“But it’s—computer what time is it?”

“The time is 0430,” the computer’s crisp voice answered.

“That’s an obscene breakfast time,” said Julian.

“Are you going back to sleep?”

Julian grimaced. “Hardly.”

“Then we may as well begin the day.” Garak rolled toward the edge of the bed, his legs whining at the sudden change in circulation.

“Elim—” Julian grabbed Garak’s hand, keeping him from turning away entirely.

“Do you need me to stay with you, Doctor?” The title slipped easily from him as his own mind fought to separate himself from the Garak in Julian's memories.

“Um; no, I don’t…I don’t guess so.” Julian let go of Garak’s hand and slid toward the other side of the bed.

“Julian,” said Garak, realizing the misinterpretation, the distance. He laid his hand on Julian’s still on the bed. “I am not walking away from you. I think it best if you have space to be fully present before explaining anything to me.”

Julian turned his hand over and squeezed Garak’s tightly, nodding, before pulling away and heading toward the bathroom. Garak sighed deeply as the door closed behind him, finding an outfit in his closet and dressing carefully, chasing away the chill that had settled in once he pulled away from the fierce human warmth. He went into the main room and asked the replicator for tea for Julian and fish juice for himself as well as scones, Julian’s favorite. He arranged the table as he heard Julian clunking around the bathroom, smiling in sad fondness at the utter clumsiness of the doctor. When he heard the shower start and Julian close the door of it, he allowed himself to sink down into a chair and exhale, the nerves of gambling on how to wake Julian fizzling through him like phaser bolts. He asked himself whether he was ready to hear whatever Julian had to tell him about the nightmare and realized he didn’t have an answer. Did he want to know about this other Garak and what he had done? Did he want to know whether that Garak was now in their bed as well as the specter of Dukat? It was getting crowded between them.

Was it too crowded?

_I have never stopped wanting this_ , he remembered himself saying just the night before, and he knew it was still true. He wanted Julian—his humor, his intelligence, his body, his kindness, his unfeigned hope and innocence. But did he want mornings like this, nights with barriers and ghosts?

He was ashamed that a “yes” was not immediate—as though he had any room to judge Julian, he with his whole runabout’s worth of secrets and fears, he who was constantly looking over his shoulder for the Order’s long shadow. He had no right to walk away from Julian as though the doctor’s brokenness was too much—but neither did he have any idea how to hold the pieces of this human he loved without breaking them further, crushing them in his own convulsive embrace.

“Have you fallen back asleep with your eyes open?” Julian asked as he came out of the bedroom, clothed and towel-drying his hair.

Garak had not realized how long he had sat still, thinking, pondering. “Why on Prime would I keep my eyes open?”

Julian shrugged. “Seems a very spy thing to do.”

Garak rolled his eyes. “It’s a very good way to dry out one’s main means of seeing,” he said. “Far better to sleep lightly enough to be awakened.”

Wringing the towel in his hands, Julian sighed. “Yeah. Sorry about that.”

Garak huffed; he had not intended the remark to be a reprimand. Rather than correcting Julian, he waved to the chair across from him. “Care to join me for breakfast?”

Smiling, Julian sat. “You made scones,” he said, his tone holding something like wonder.

“They are your preferred breakfast.”

Julian ran a finger around the edge of the serving plate. “You are—Elim, you are…he is so different than you.”

Garak’s fingers tightened around the handle of his cup as he took a drink of his juice. Which “him” was so different? Did he dare ask?

“He was so—so cruel, so calculating. I mean, not that you’re not calculating, I know, but—oh, damn, this is not turning out as a compliment.” Julian put his head in his hands, pulling on his hair in fistfuls.

“Perhaps, Doctor,” said Garak to the top of his head, “you should begin at something closer to a beginning?”

Julian snorted, but took a drink of his tea and settled into his chair. “Well, I’ve told you about there being mirror counterparts of us—well, some of us. You. He was the first one I met on that DS9, did I say? I…I thought it was you; hoped it was you, rather, because he was in a uniform and the station looked so different. He called me ‘Terran’ and later he, well, he threatened Kira using me. He told her he was going to have me killed,” Julian stated, looking Garak in the eye, “and I don’t doubt for a second that he would have.”

Garak looked back, betraying nothing. This other Garak sounded very much like who he himself had been, who he could still have been were it not for this unforeseen complication of exile. Rather more arrogant and unsubtle, perhaps. He wondered if Julian understood that the difference was not all that wide.

“In...in the dream, the nightmare—the memories were running together, again.” Garak braced himself as Julian continued. “I was back in the ore processing room and it was hot, it was so hot—if they keep that station like you…like the Cardassians kept Terok Nor, I understand why you’re so cold all the time.” Garak let the attempt at distancing him from the regime slide; Julian had a hard enough time reconciling him with his people on a good day, and today was not a good day. “Odo was yelling at me; when I was there, when I was really there, not in the dream, he hit me for insubordination and I…I killed him, later. The intendant was so angry. But in the dream Odo hit me and I fell and he walked away and the other Garak and—and Dukat came in. Garak—that Garak—told Dukat to ‘teach the Terran a lesson’ and Dukat, he, he…” Julian swallowed, his jaw clenching, his eyes fixed on the cup in front of him. “He held me down on the floor next to the ore processors and…well. And you—and Garak, the other Garak…just watched…” He wrapped his hands around the warmth of the tea, his shoulders curled in, his eyes closing with the memory.

The betrayal.

Garak now understood why Julian needed to tell them both that he was “different” than the mirror Garak. That he was not cruel. And where Julian was concerned, it was true. But he was, indeed, cruel. Calculating. He himself had watched so many suffer—not in the way of Julian’s nightmare, but suffer all the same.

So what right had he to defend himself against the image in Julian’s mind?

“I’m a mess,” Julian said, lifting his head, “and I’m so sorry to drag you into this. I shouldn’t—I pretended to myself that I was all right, that I was ready to move forward, that I could be the person who could talk to you and, and _be_ with you in all the ways you deserve, and I’m not. I’m a mess. You shouldn’t have to keep dealing with that.”

“Oh, Julian,” sighed Garak, incredulous, annoyed at them both for how careful they were to protect the other from their own sharp edges, sabotaging themselves with every considerate act of distance. “In case you have not noticed, you are not the only ‘mess’ at this table. Your mess is far more obvious than mine at the moment, but do you really think that means you are the only one without his, hmm, swans in a row?”

Julian laughed and Garak’s heart quickened at the sound. “‘Ducks,’ Garak, not swans. We have ‘ducks’ in a row.”

“Are they more orderly than swans?”

“I have no idea,” said Julian.

“Well, regardless of the patterns of your Earth animals, the point stands. If you are not ready, you are not ready; to attempt it was not a lie to me. You are not a ‘mess’ in the sense that you are burdensome, or problematic. And I keep ‘dealing with that’ because, Julian, I…” Garak almost bit the word back, swallowing it whole. But after all, was it a lie? Could he bear the truth, this once? He gazed into Julian’s bright hazel eyes, those eyes he only ever wanted to look at him with delight, with desire, with the wholehearted warmth that outmatched anyone else Garak had ever met. He took a deep breath.

“Because I love you.”

Julian’s jaw dropped and Garak reached over to lightly tap the underside of his chin. The pair sat in silence for a moment, both stunned at the admission.

“I…never thought you’d actually _say_ it,” said Julian at last. “But I—I love you, too, Elim, and not just because I don’t want you to feel awkward—”

Which Garak now did, especially since Julian had acknowledged that response.

“But I do, and I have for—a while. Before…well, before all this.” He gestured at himself, at the room. “I don’t…I can’t…oh, man, I am going to have so much to talk to Telnorri about.”

Garak couldn’t quite suppress the look of alarm that crossed his face and Julian laughed. “It’s okay,” Julian said, still chuckling, “trust me, Telnorri knows way more about me than you. I don’t spill _all_ your secrets in session.”

It had never occurred to Garak that Julian would be discussing _him_ with the station counselor and the lapse in awareness horrified him. It was a glinn's mistake--and an unnerving example of Julian's Federation trust rubbing off more than he'd realized. Perhaps he should reconsider his promise to himself to stay out of Telnorri’s files.

“Elim?” Julian asked, and Garak refocused. “It really is okay—he keeps things confidential, and it helps me to…to unpack this. Us. How I can be in love with you when I can’t…but if you’d prefer I don’t mention you, then I won’t.”

Oh, it was so much easier when this was all _Julian’s_ fight and Garak was just helping from the sidelines. Being part of the “us” made everything murky, difficult, complicated. He could see the way the hours with Telnorri helped Julian unwind his life; he understood that to withhold this, to _lie_ would be, in its way, the noblest thing the hurting human could give—and Garak taking him up on it would break everything that Julian was. Garak would not be the one who taught Julian to give up that beautiful, stupid honesty.

“Thank you, Doctor, for your consideration…but I understand that I am part of what you ‘unpack’ with the counselor. I will—I will trust to his discretion.” _Perhaps refreshing his awareness of the fact that any breach of confidentiality would make a trip without clothing or food to the ice plains of Andoria look like a favored vacation_ , he added to himself.

“Well, then.” Another silence settled between them as Julian finished off a scone, occasionally grinning to himself. Breakfast complete, Julian stretched.

“Computer—what’s the time?”

“0535,” the computer answered.

“Ugh,” sighed Julian, “I still don’t have to be on shift for two hours.” He yawned. “I guess I could go in early."

"Or you could join me in some reading on the couch," Garak suggested. He didn’t know where the idea had come from, but for some reason he did not want to break the domestic peace after such an announcement.

“I could indeed,” conceded Julian, smiling. “I do have a new report on the resurfacing of the coronavirus in some of the outlying towns on Deneva. We’re not sure whether this is really in the same viral family as one of the pandemics of the early 21st century, but if so they would be a fascinating instance of interstellar transmission coupled with dormancy tactics…” Julian continued to chatter on as he gathered a padd and Garak settled himself on the couch with his own reading. He absentmindedly laid his free arm along the back of the sofa and Julian stood in front of him, description abandoned. Garak looked up in the sudden silence.

“May—may I sit there?” Julian asked, gesturing to the space created at Garak’s open side.

The two-way consent question was still foreign to Garak, as he could only think of a handful of instances where he would say _no_ to further contact with the lithe human. But he appreciated Julian being able to practice what he needed to hear himself. “Of course,” Garak said, shifting slightly so that his body angled enough for Julian to lie against his stomach and chest rather than his ribs. Julian nestled in alongside him, his head just beneath Garak’s chin. After a moment, Julian reached up and pulled Garak’s hand from the back of the couch to cross his waist, a securing, a declaration. Garak adjusted to the new angle and, before he could think better of it, kissed Julian on the top of the head, breathing the scent of his shampoo and feeling the strange texture of his human hair. Julian stroked his arm in answer and the pair resumed reading in silence, content.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The bit about being a "mess" is inspired by the lovely words of Jadzia Dax in celestialskiff's [Third-Hand Knitwear](https://archiveofourown.org/works/886040), in which she reassures Kira that, "Everyone's a mess. That's what makes people whole. I'm a mess, too, you just haven't noticed yet."
> 
> I wrote this chapter back in March when the first lockdowns were just rolling through America, so yes, the coronavirus reference is absolutely my self-indulgent hope that we've figured out this virus, too, by that time. Get your science geek on, Bashirs of our time.
> 
> Also, I love the vast amount of stories on here that have Garak skirt around ever saying "I love you" in very creative and flexible ways, but I feel like just this once he'd have to own it. Briefly.


	20. Chapter 20

“Right, so, it’s time we talk.”

Garak turned away from the mannequin he was dressing to find the chief of operations standing stockily in his shop door. “And why would it be that time, Chief?” he asked, sticking his remaining pins quite deliberately into the mannequin.

The chief watched him stab the part of the chest where a human heart would be several times before answering. “Because you’re—well, you and Julian…” He reddened and trailed off.

“Julian and I…?” Garak prompted unhelpfully.

“You’re not going to hurt him, you hear me?”

Garak sighed and walked to his center table, gesturing at O’Brien to come in and join him. “I take it we couldn’t have this ‘talk’ at somewhere more amenable than my place of business?”

O’Brien took several more steps into the shop, well short of the table, and crossed his arms.

“Very well, then. Mr. O’Brien, I am quite aware of Julian’s fondness for you and I do not wish to get in the way of that, if that’s what is fueling your concern.”

“It’s not that.” O’Brien shifted uncomfortably. “He—well, you probably know even better than I do what he’s been through.”

 _Exponentially_ , Garak thought to himself, keeping his face pleasant and blank.

“And I just—well, he doesn’t deserve to go through any more shit, is what I’m saying. But these last three weeks with you two being…”

“Obvious?”

“I was going to say ‘official,’ but sure, ‘obvious’ will do it. With you being ‘obvious’ these last three weeks, it’s past time to make sure you aren’t…well…you don’t…you’re not planning on anything that will shut him down.” Almost as if relieved of the tension of declaring that much, O'Brien’s shoulders dropped a noticeable inch away from his ears.

Garak smoothed the fabric on the table in front of him, remembering a different day but a similar talk from Dax. He wondered again if Julian had any idea how much his friends loved him, wanted to protect him. He considered how much to tell O’Brien—about how often he and Julian had argued about being “obvious,” about his own hesitation to make Julian any more of a target, about Julian’s insistence that he needed to fight back not by claiming a side in the generations-old private war but by declaring who he was, whom he loved, who loved _him_.

“I have no plans to harm him,” Garak finally said, more softly, more truthfully than he’d intended. “Like you, I did not—enjoy seeing him hurt.”

O’Brien tensed again. “I know it’s only been a couple of months, but I—Garak, I don’t ever want to see him like that again. He was so…broken, and even though I want him so badly to shut up sometimes I couldn’t _bear_ to see him that quiet, that unnaturally _still_. He’s…better, with you. I see him when he walks away from lunch with you or sometimes he’ll come to Quark’s with me and tell me about you—not much,” he said, holding up his hands as though prepared for Garak’s displeasure. “Trust me, I don’t want to know about—you two.”

Garak was curious about whether the discomfort was about Julian with anyone or Julian with a _Cardie_. He decided it was better not to ask—if even the chief himself knew.

“But he gets—well, he gets so damn _happy_ when he talks about you, and it’s like…it’s like the brokenness got fixed, a little.” O’Brien shrugged, having said more than Garak had ever heard him say in one go.

 _It’s like the brokenness got fixed, a little._ Garak’s heart squeezed in his chest at this external confirmation that he was part of Julian’s healing, that his presence in Julian’s life didn’t harm him further but made him glad. He knew how much work Julian was putting in that had nothing to do with him—that the “fixing” was from Telnorri, and Sisko, and Kira, and Dax, and O’Brien, but mostly from Julian himself, strong and hopeful and courageous in a way that stunned Garak, that taught him something new every day. How could the chief think he would hurt a being that made him feel like he, too, was being fixed, a little?

“I am glad to hear that Julian is made happy in my company,” said Garak, uncharacteristically unsure of what to say. “And I daresay he quite enjoys his evenings with you and your various pursuits. He is his own man with deep relationships with several people here on the station, and I do not intend to intrude upon any of them. But hear me, Chief O’Brien.” Garak stepped swiftly around the table, gliding into O’Brien’s space before the man even knew he was moving. “Not only do I not intend to harm Julian Bashir, I have a not inconsiderable range of misfortunes I hope to inflict on those who have done so or plan to do so in the future.” He grinned, a wide shark-smile of no humor and ice-blue eyes. 

O’Brien visibly swallowed. “So we’re on the same page, then,” he said.

“Quite,” replied Garak.

O’Brien straightened, standing his ground in front of the fearsome glimpse of the Cardassian Garak really was, and Garak appreciated anew the defiant courageousness of the Irishman. “But you be good to him, you hear me?” O’Brien declared. “I don’t mean just don’t hurt him, I mean be a good—a good partner to him. He—well, he loves you, and I think you know that, and you just make sure you’re worthy of that. He loves fierce, Julian does, and deep. Don’t waste that.”

The pair stood in silence for a moment, holding each other to the promise of valuing this strange creature Bashir, before O’Brien nodded and turned away, leaving the shop.

_He loves fierce, and deep. Don’t waste that._

Garak sagged slightly against the table behind him. _Oh, my dear Chief, do not fear; I know enough not to waste that which is priceless._

***

Sisko settled comfortably behind his desk, palming his baseball and gently spinning it from hand to hand. “So,” he asked, “have we gotten anywhere?”

Dax and Odo looked at each other. “No,” Dax said, her tone a mix of anger and regret.

Sisko sighed. He hadn’t really expected a “yes.”

“Major Kira and I found some traces of a Cardassian ship at the coordinates Odo gave us, but it was gone by the time we got there. We followed the trail as far as we could, but between not wanting to go too far behind Cardassian lines and the mix of other ships that were starting to cross the trail, we didn’t want to push the matter.”

“Which was the right call, old man, much though I know it pains all of us for this to still be…unfinished.”

“Indeed,” grumbled Odo, “as I do like to keep my open case list as small as possible.”

“And you’re still not willing to tell us who gave you those coordinates, Odo?” asked Dax. “They may know more about how to find Dukat, if they got that far.”

Odo shook his head.

“I don’t doubt that we both have our suspicion about who could get information like that, Dax,” said Sisko. “But I respect your desire to protect him, Odo. I would ask that you check with him on whether he knows anything further, but I leave it up to you how you have that conversation.”

Odo tilted his head in recognition of the authority and the trio sat in silence for a moment.

“They were positively adorable at lunch the other day,” said Jadzia, smiling at the desk. “Julian was just beaming about getting Garak worked up over something or other.” Her smile faded and she looked up at Sisko. “Benjamin, what if we never catch him?”

Sisko sighed. “Then we never catch him. We have to believe that there is some kind of justice that happens even when the culprit isn’t caught.” Odo harrumphed in disagreement, but Sisko continued. “I would love to have the trial and be able to show Bashir—to show _myself_ that here, here is the villain locked away, unable to ever commit that crime again, and I will hold out hope that one day, that can still happen. But I, too, have seen Bashir lately; I dropped by the infirmary the other day with Jake and he—well, I don’t think he’ll ever be quite his ‘old self,’ not in the same way, but he was great with Jake.” He didn’t add the gladness in his own heart that Julian had finally stopped looking so ashamed in his presence, a shame he had given up trying to explain Julian had no cause to feel. Sisko was not at all ashamed of his chief medical officer and was beyond relieved that the CMO at least seemed to be beginning to believe it himself.

“I have seen him with Chief O’Brien at Quark’s,” offered Odo, “and he is much less…on edge about the space than he once was. I believe that, too, is progress.”

 _Progress_. Yes, it was that, in an entirely nonlinear sort of way. It would be an ongoing thing, this remaking; Sisko remembered the Prophets telling him how he existed in the memory of Jennifer’s death and wondered if Bashir had that, if Bashir existed in a night of fear and pain.

He dearly hoped not.

“Progress will have to be its own kind of justice, for now,” Sisko said to the pair in front of him. “We will keep working, keep following what leads we can, and certainly keep checking in with what the doctor needs, but this process, this progress is his own. It is justice that he is determined to make it, against whatever odds. And,” he laughed, “it is justice that a Cardassian is there to help him do it.”

Dax laughed with him and Odo smiled softly. “I’m telling you, the way they bicker with each other, I think they’ll be just fine,” Dax said fondly. “I remember the way Torias used to pick little fights with Nilani just to see her wrinkle up her face in frustration. She was beautiful when she was frustrated, though she never liked to hear that.”

“A human and a Cardassian,” Odo pondered. “What a strange business you humanoids make of all this.”

“Strange and strangely marvelous,” said Sisko, setting his baseball down and standing. “So we celebrate the marvelous, keep an eye out for the strange, and continue to be there for our doctor.”

“For our _friend_ ,” corrected Dax, standing as well.

“For our friend,” said Sisko firmly, and the phrase felt just right on his tongue.

***

“He said _what_?” guffawed Julian, setting down his glass to laugh even harder as Garak smiled across from him. The remains of their dinner sat on the table between them in Garak’s quarters, forgotten in the midst of Garak’s (heavily edited) story about O’Brien’s visit to his shop.

“I can’t believe he gave you, _you_ of all people, a shovel talk,” Julian gasped out, his laughter subsiding.

“A ‘shovel talk’?” asked Garak.

“It’s—it’s an old idiom, for when a person threatens their friend’s romantic partner. It comes from the time when humans would dig graves with shovels; a sort of ‘they’d never find your body’ talk to tell the partner how serious things would be if they hurt the friend. But to say it to _you_! Why, with you, they probably never _would_ find the body, would they?” Julian’s eyebrow arched, the smile now definitely more of a smirk.

“My dear doctor, where would I put a _body_? What a mess that would make of my fabric storage! What a terrible thing to do to a poor tailor, to make him have to dispose of an entire _body_.”

Julian laughed again, recognizing the edges of Garak’s secretiveness that would probably never open to him. It was the price to pay of being in love with a spy, he was realizing, and certainly he didn’t want to push Garak further than he could actually go.

“So I guess we have Miles’ blessing,” Julian said instead, “as long as you behave yourself.”

“I will have it known that I am quite the gentleman,” Garak protested, raising his glass to Julian. “And I have no intention of misbehaving with you, my dear—save in the ways you ask me to, of course.” He took a sip of his kanar but set it down as Julian reached out and took his free hand.

“I know,” said Julian, all seriousness now as he put down his own glass and leaned forward. “And…Elim, I’ve been trying to figure out how to ask you this all night. Will you—will you ‘misbehave’ with me?”

Garak looked at him intently, reading every aspect of the human’s face and body. “Are you ready for such a thing?” he asked, his voice soft.

“Yes,” said Julian, “but I ask something further. Can you—will you come with me to my quarters?”

Garak rubbed his thumb over the back of Julian’s hand, thinking.

“I want—Elim, you already know that I want you, but I want every surface of that place to be covered with you, with _us_.” He blushed at Garak’s raised eyeridge. “Well, maybe not _every_ surface, that’s a bit ambitious. But I want—I’m ready to make that place _ours_ again, to…to feel you inside me, in my bed.”

Garak swallowed at the enormity of what Julian was asking for, was wanting _from him_. His body was certainly interested in the proposal; it had been rather neglected of late, with only one or two interludes by himself soothing his own frustrated desire as Julian slowly relearned the feel of his scales against that abnormally smooth skin.

“If—if _you’re_ ready, Elim. This takes both of us, after all.”

“It certainly does, dear doctor,” Garak agreed. “And I most enthusiastically consent--on one condition.”

“Which is?” Garak could feel Julian bracing himself against whatever Garak would say and internally sighed; of all the times for the suspicion he’d been trying to cultivate in the trusting young human to kick in.

“You will keep me informed, the entire time, of where you are and what you need and if you need to stop, you will let me know. If you need to slow down, you will let me know. Do not ask me to guess what you are comfortable with, Julian.”

Julian looked away, his hand still held immobile in Garak’s. He took a deep breath and looked back into Garak’s eyes, hazel fiercely meeting blue. “I accept your condition,” he said.

Garak squeezed his hand. “Then, my dear, shall we misbehave?”

Julian grinned in delight and stood, drawing Garak up with him, into him as he lightly kissed the Cardassian on the lips before heading toward the door, pulling Garak along behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Miles v. Garak scenes are so much fun, y'all, because they both love Julian so much and are so damn awkward about it.
> 
> We're almost done! As a holiday treat (Monday being Memorial Day here in the U.S.), I'll upload the last chapter tomorrow rather than waiting until next Sunday. It's only fair, considering how patient y'all have been and how this chapter and the last one flow into each other. (More consensual sexy times, they be a-comin'.)


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sexy times! In case you needed that alert.

There was no giggling, no play, nothing touching besides their hands that never came unclasped as the pair made their way to Julian’s quarters and he keyed in the code to open the doors. Garak followed after; he had not been in Julian’s quarters for any length of time since the day Julian returned from the mirror universe, the day he had held the grieving man in his arms twice and watched the galaxy between them shrink to a telescope’s circle, a pinpoint of a star. He could see that Julian had begun to live into the space again, his tennis gear tilting messily in a corner and his research padds scattered over the couch. It was good to feel this place as Julian’s home once more, so full of the restless mind and variety of passions of the insatiable doctor. Garak smiled at it, at the comfort of it, and pulled gently on Julian’s hand to bring the man back to him as he stood in the center of the room.

Julian turned and noticed Garak looking around approvingly. “Enough of a mess for you?” Julian said with a smile, leaning in again to kiss the smooth grey lips. Garak brought his free hand up and deepened the kiss, sliding his hand up Julian’s neck to rest lightly in the tangled curls at the back of his head. Julian breathed into the kiss, stiffening for a heartbeat before relaxing into Garak, breaking the handclasp they had kept and sweeping his arms over Garak’s shoulders, kneading the neck ridges. Garak sighed at the touch, wrapping his now-free arm around Julian’s slim waist, pulling the doctor to him, leaving the kiss to nip his way down Julian’s jawline, devouring the scent of his throat. Julian slid his nimble fingers up Garak’s ridges to tangle into the sleek black hair, pulling slightly, and Garak squeezed Julian tightly in response, almost lifting the slighter man off the floor.

“Wait,” said Julian, his breath suddenly hitching, “wait, please.”

Garak, stars sparking in his eyes, pushed himself away from Julian. The pair breathed heavily, hands on each other’s arms, a closed circle between them.

“Don’t—don’t pick me up,” Julian clarified after a moment. “Please.”

Garak nodded, willing himself into stillness. Julian’s fingers spasmed occasionally around Garak’s upper arms as he fought his way back. After a few moments, Julian’s eyes cleared and he smiled sheepishly at Garak. “Sorry,” he said.

“You are obeying my condition,” Garak said. “I would have to forfeit my part in this if you did not.” And have a very, very cold shower to calm himself down now, but Julian didn’t need to know that.

“Right,” said Julian, still self-conscious. “Right.” He stepped forward, flattening the circle, and leaned his forehead against Garak’s _ChUfa_. “Thank you, Elim,” he half-whispered. “I…I have the feeling that’s going to happen a lot tonight.”

“We shall take our time. I have nowhere more important to be,” Garak responded, and Julian nodded once. He took a deep breath and leaned back, kissing the top of the _ChUfa_ , the middle, the bottom, the ridge running down Garak’s nose, his lips, the ridges meeting on his chin. “Shall we move this to a less vertical space?” he asked, his breath ghosting over Garak’s throat.

Garak shivered in desire and stimulation and worry. “Let’s,” he said.

Julian kissed him again on the jaw and turned away, holding Garak’s hand again as he led the way into the bedroom. The pair stood at the foot of the bed for a moment, Garak squeezing Julian’s hand, _I’m here_ , this time, _I’m here_ , Julian squeezing back, grounding himself in the strength of them both.

Julian put one knee on the bed and turned, pulling Garak to him, over him, kissing him and falling backward, taking Garak with him, landing with an “oomph!” as Garak, unprepared for the move, tried to catch himself and not flatten that slender body. Julian laughed at Garak’s undignified sprawl, pulling him up again to his lips, kissing him fiercely, hungrily, “I want this,” over and over, a litany of consent, of power, of reclamation. “Elim, I want _you_ ,” and Garak’s hands were working their way to the bottom edge of Julian’s shirt, hesitating.

“Julian,” he asked, his fingertips resting at Julian’s waist as Julian half-sat up to keep kissing him.

“Yes,” Julian said, “ _yes_.” He helped Garak pull off his shirt and started undoing the toggles on Garak’s own garment, their bare chests scraping against each other as Julian scooted back on the bed and pulled Garak along with him, scale on skin for the first time since…

Julian’s breath hitched again but he did not stop, mouthing his way down Garak’s neck ridge, his body slightly shuddering.

“Julian,” Garak said, pulling back, realizing he was straddling the doctor, swinging one leg back over so he was instead sitting beside the man. Julian tried to follow and Garak grabbed the closest thing to him—Julian’s wrist at his shoulder. Julian hissed and Garak immediately let go. Julian leaned back, his hands behind him for support, taking in deep breaths and letting them out slowly. After a moment he rubbed his face angrily.

“I’m sorry, I thought—I thought I could push past that one.”

“Julian, do not ‘push past’ any of this. I—I do not wish us to go through with this if it is only going to be another fearsome memory. You _have_ to tell me when you need to pause. Or stop.”

“Gods, Garak, at this rate of my having to stop at every new level, we’re never going to make it to sex.”

“Then we get as far as you are able.”

Julian snorted derisively. “But I _want_ this,” he said.

“I see that,” Garak said playfully, running a hand down the outside of Julian’s thigh, drawing attention to the half-hard staff beginning to tent Julian’s trousers. “And I, too, want this.”

“Your ridges are so _magnificently_ dark,” Julian said, eyes roaming over them.

Garak hummed noncommittally. “But I do not want this if it is rushed or poorly done. After all, I did promise the chief I would not hurt you.”

Julian laughed heartily, his head dropping back, the laughter shaking his thin chest. “Oh, Garak, how do you _do_ that?”

“Do what?”

“Keep—keep a level head, and your sense of humor, while wanting to get into my trousers at least as much as I want you in them myself?”

Garak shrugged. “We all have our talents.”

Julian’s eyes darkened. “I happen to know for a fact that you have several talents, my lovely Cardassian friend,” he said, pulling Garak back to him with a finger under his chin, kissing him lightly. “But—but perhaps I’m not ready to be underneath like this.”

Garak kissed him back. “Good, my Julian; that is what I need to know.” He shifted, changing places and lying on his back on the bed, Julian swinging one long leg over to straddle him. Julian sat just over Garak’s _ajan_ and rolled his pelvis experimentally, causing Garak to gasp and grab Julian’s hips.

“Ah, yes,” said Julian with a smile, “this is _much_ better.” He leaned down and, without any preamble, bit Garak hard on the shoulder ridge, right on the extra-sensitive _kinath’U_. Garak growled and threw his arms around the human, digging into the smooth shoulder blades with his fingers. Julian worked his way down, biting and tonguing Garak’s chest, nibbling on the ridges of his _ChUla_ , pausing in very specific places over his pectoral muscles and upper stomach. Calming his brain down enough to pay attention again, Garak realized Julian was finding each of the scars that dotted his torso, kissing them, tasting them. The affection in the gesture was as powerful as the sheer desire lit by the bites and Garak lost himself in the wonder that Julian, even as he was trying to hold himself steady and present in this place of such horrible memories, was caring for Garak, for the horrible memories he also carried.

“ _Julian_ ,” he murmured, pulling Julian back up to kiss him deeply, to taste all the thousands of things that made him love this human who was beautiful in so many ways. “I love you, Julian,” he breathed into that velvet mouth, and he felt Julian’s smile against his own lips.

“I love you, too,” whispered Julian. He ran his hands up Garak’s sides, delighting in the shudder it provoked, running his thumbs down to Garak’s trousers and pushing them just far enough that he could trace the _ChUva_ , fingers light against the framing ridges, swallowing down Garak’s gasps as the Cardassian began to unravel beneath him, hands cupped around Julian’s face, thumbs brushing away the few stray tears Julian could not stop as both of them tasted the saltwater on each other’s lips.

“Trousers,” Julian said, thumbs pushing Garak’s further down. He sat back and Garak finished taking his own off, reaching out to help Julian, pausing with a question on his face before touching. Julian nodded and together they pulled off the garments until they both were naked on Julian’s bed, Julian sitting astride Garak’s lap as Garak simply held him, chest to chest, breathing in Julian’s scent.

Julian shifted, hyper aware of the way his movement dragged his cock across Garak’s stomach scales. He shivered at the contact.

“Julian?” Garak asked, pulling back slightly.

“Good,” Julian said. “I forgot how good you feel.”

Garak smiled and kissed him on the shoulder.

“But it’s time you come out to play, Elim,” Julian said into Garak’s hair, and he reached between them to run a long finger over the line of Garak’s _ajan_. Garak’s hips bucked and Julian nipped at the ridge on Garak’s jawline as he let his finger slide up the _ajan_ slit again before gently pushing inside. “Lie back,” he whispered into Garak’s ear, and Garak complied. Julian scooted down slightly, sitting on Garak’s thighs, holding the memory of a reversal, of his own thighs under the weight of another. He recreated the moment he would never explain to Garak and rewrote it, memorizing instead the scratch of Garak’s scales on the underside of his own thighs, the wetness of Garak’s _ajan_ , the dark grey of the lips against his own golden skin two fingers deep, Elim’s eyes closed in wanton abandon, his fingers digging shallow gouges into Julian’s knees.

“Evert for me, my love,” said Julian, and Garak did, his _prUt_ sliding out into Julian’s waiting hand, slick and alien and wonderful, a thing entirely controlled, a thing entirely nonthreatening. Julian remembered, and rewrote, and crawled back up Garak to be able to reach behind himself with the hand covered with Garak’s fluids and prepare his own opening, one finger, two, the stretch burning and frightening and unfamiliar and soothed by Garak sitting up to rest one hand at Julian’s back and run the other over Julian’s inside himself, not adding to the fullness but holding, touching, grounding. Garak kissed the hollow of Julian’s throat, licked the lines of his collarbones, took the bud of a nipple into his mouth and rolled his tongue over it. Julian bucked at the added sensation and felt Garak grin against his skin before sliding his way over to the other nipple, tonguing, tasting, nipping, and Julian cried out at the sensation from so many points.

“E—Elim,” Julian panted, “I am ready.”

Garak kissed the center of Julian’s chest where the _ChUla_ would be and guided Julian’s hand to his own _prUt_ , balancing and guiding the man down, down. They both gasped as the tip of the _prUt_ slid inside, the shock of touch so unfamiliar and so easy. Julian slipped down slowly, slowly, resting as Garak bottomed out within him. The pair sat and breathed for a heartbeat, remembering, learning.

Julian rolled once and Garak nearly yelped with the stimulation of it. “ _This_ ,” murmured Julian, beginning to set a pace of undulating against Garak’s _irllun_ , Garak rocking so that he hit Julian’s prostate, “this is how a _real_ Cardassian feels.”

Garak flung his arms around Julian and fell back, pulling Julian with him, pushing up and into the warmth of this human, _his_ human, his beloved. The pair surged into each other, kisses abandoned for bites and open-mouthed exhales, hands running wild over the grey and tan skin until Julian grabbed Garak’s hands and held them above his head, fingers interlocked as he chased his desire across Garak’s body, his own cock rubbing against the rough scales with every thrust as Garak pushed into him, the rhythm speeding past his own heartbeat, the entire world filled with the sound and smell and taste and feeling of Garak, only Garak, inside and around Julian as the rain built within them, insistent, pounding, unstoppable. Julian clenched Garak’s hands even tighter as he hung his head against Garak’s shoulder, letting Garak take full control, letting Garak use him, push him, batter him into something new, into a pleasure that chased away the pain, into the white-hot blindingness of completion as he came with a shout of Elim’s name, Garak following him over the precipice a few heartbeats later and the pair of them slumping into boneless bliss.

“Ah,” said Julian after a few moments as Garak’s _prUt_ pulled out of him with a debauched _slurp_.

“Indeed,” agreed Garak, his arms resting lightly around Julian as the man lay sprawled on top of him.

“Well.”

“So very eloquent you are after sex,” Garak observed.

“I would poke you, but I don’t want to move,” chided Julian.

“I can see your dilemma.”

Julian chuckled against Garak’s throat. They lay in silence for a while, their strength returning slowly, their bodies cooling and getting sticky.

“My dear,” said Garak eventually.

“You’re always the first to want to clean up, you know,” said Julian.

“I do get colder more quickly than you do.”

“Even when I’m acting as a living blanket?”

“Even so.”

Julian sighed. “Then we best get you cleaned off and warmed up,” he said, pushing himself up. They both grimaced at the unsticking sounds of the mess between them as Julian’s skin pulled away from Garak’s.

“To the shower, then?” asked Julian. Garak nodded and Julian swung himself off Garak’s hips, swiveling for the edge of the bed. He misjudged the arc and slid off instead, falling to the floor, his body hitting heavily and a shuddering gasp sounding in the quiet room.

Garak was up in an instant, kneeling at the side of the human frozen in place on the floor. “Julian?”

Julian shook his head minutely, eyes screwed shut, body wrapped in a tight ball.

“Julian, listen to me. Listen to my voice. You are with me, remember? You slipped off the bed after being with me; remember holding my hands, we are together, you are safe here.”

Julian’s eyes remained tightly closed.

“Julian, look at me. Please.”

He opened his eyes, the hazel clouded with fear. Garak swallowed his anger, his exhaustion, his sorrow, his frustration. “Julian, may I help you stand up?”

He waited while Julian fought for control in his own mind before, at last, receiving Julian’s curt nod. Garak stood, gently guiding Julian to stand as well, and they remained there a moment, naked together, while Julian slowly found his balance.

“It will never fully go away, will it?” asked Julian, voice as tense as his body.

“I—I don’t know,” answered Garak, hating the admission but realizing that a lie had no place in this moment. “But you will not have to weather it alone.”

“Oh, Garak, how on earth can you stay with someone like me?”

Garak smiled. “With ease, my love.” He softly kissed Julian on the cheek. “Are you ready to go to the shower?” When Julian nodded, he took a step toward the bathroom but turned back. “Would you prefer we do this separately?”

“No,” said Julian. “I want to do this together—but no sex.”

“No sex,” Garak agreed. They walked into the bathroom and, as Garak set the controls, Julian hugged him around the middle from behind.

“Thank you,” he said to Garak’s shoulder.

“Of course,” Garak responded, turning into the embrace.

“Thank you for how you said it.”

“Said what?’

“You asked me to remember, Elim. And I do, most of the time now. When you tell me again to listen to you, to be here, not there—it takes a minute but I remember, my love, that it’s you.”

Garak smiled, a true and full and happy smile, and stepped backward into the shower, pulling his Julian along after, kissing him sweetly, chastely, and Julian closed the door behind them.

_*****FIN***** _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, my dear readers, thank you so much for your kudos and your comments and your affection for this story. It has been such an incredible thing to write and I am so in love with this pair of fools I don't know what to do with it. This novel has been almost a full year in the making and I am so glad of it, glad of what I have learned as a writer and a human. Sorry not sorry for the utterly saccharine tag at the end, I couldn't avoid it. Well, didn't want to.
> 
> I'm working on several other things, including a LOTR tale (entering a new fandom!) and a post-canon DS9 Garashir thing that is looking to become another book (sigh). I hope to see you on these other works, as I value what I learn from you in this back-and-forth of creation.


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